Apiary Above the Tram Lines

Atop the laundromat, hives breathe in cedar boxes, their seams warm as wrists in late April. Below, the tram combs sparks from the rails, and the avenue tastes of metal and orange peel.

Bees rise like punctuation from a handwritten sky, gold commas stitching balcony to billboard. Someone waters basil in a cracked blue mug; the whole block lifts its green throat to listen.

At dusk, the rooftops ring with tin and wings. Smoke from the keeper's can curls like a cello note. Honey gathers daylight grain by grain, thick with linden, rainwater, and newsprint.

Night opens its black umbrella over antennas. In the hive, summer keeps turning in the dark. By morning, jars will hold a small sun each, and kitchens will speak in amber.