Cartography of a Sleeping City

The river in its sleeved hush threads the bridges like a needle, stitching the districts to the dark. On the water, streetlights loosen and float as coins in a slow palm.

A tram sighs past, copper-bell soft, its windows holding small aquariums of faces and newspaper glow. I count the stops by the breath of doors, by the soft percussion of boots.

Above, rooftops grow a blue frost, antennas stand like dry grasses. Somewhere a kettle decides to sing, and a stairwell becomes a throat that shapes a name into steam.

By dawn the city folds its map, tucks alleys into its coat, and walks out in a plain shirt of light. Only the pigeons keep the old routes, footnotes of gray on the page of air.