The Library of Weather

At dawn the city opens its cabinets of wind, thin drawers sliding with the hush of paper. A librarian of light dusts each balcony, and the streetlamps close their eyes like stacked atlases.

Noon arrives with a bright, unbuttoned rain, its stitching everywhere, needles in glass. We walk under an umbrella of old receipts, the air smelling of coins and ironed shirts.

By late afternoon the sky turns the color of waiting, a bruise of lilac and aspirin cloud. The river rehearses its silver speech, while pigeons write commas on the air.

Night shelves its storms in alphabetical order. I find the volume where your name once lived— blank pages, still warm, still humming. I check it out and carry it home in my ribs.