The Apiary Above Seventh Street

On the roof, the hives hum like warm wires, while buses below drag sparks through puddled light; the beekeeper lifts a frame, and the air fills with amber grammar, soft and exact.

Neon from the laundromat climbs the brick, turning each wing to a shard of stained glass. A queen moves somewhere in the dark architecture, and every worker returns with a map of rain.

From cracked planters, thyme and wild fennel rise; their scent threads through satellite dishes and vents. The city keeps counting money and minutes, but here, night is measured in pollen and breath.

Near dawn, the skyline pales to milk-blue steel. Traffic wakes, impatient, metallic, loud. Still the bees drift home, heavy with morning, as if carrying small suns no one can tax.