Rooftop Constellatory

After the rain, the rooftops keep small oceans in satellite dishes and dented aluminum bowls; stars arrive early there, trembling in puddles, as if the sky has lowered its voice to listen.

From a fire escape, steam climbs like sheet music, and laundry lines pluck the dusk into thin silver notes. Somewhere a train enters the earth with a bright sigh, carrying pockets full of wet newspapers and thunder.

Windows bloom one by one along the avenue, terrariums of amber where hands rinse rice, fold letters, button uniforms, cradle sleep against their shoulders; each room a lantern cupped from the wind.

By midnight, even the gutters are fluent in light. The moon lays a cool coin on every brick chimney, and the whole city, rinsed and breathing, turns slowly in its basin of dark water.