Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

Above the laundromat, the hives hum copper, rainwater sleeping in satellite dishes, a child's red kite snagged on an antenna flickers like a small, stubborn flag.

Bees lift from thyme in cracked paint buckets, their bodies carrying sunlight grain by grain; the skyline loosens its necktie of wires, and windows begin to pour out evening.

I uncap smoke and cedar, slow as prayer, watch workers write bright commas in the air; each return is a soft collision of sweetness, a map folded and unfolded by wings.

When night climbs up the stairwell door, the roofs turn black and silver, tide-still; inside the boxes, summer keeps speaking, a low gold language under the moon.