Atlas of Lost Frequencies

In a city tuned to midnight, antennas bloom like reeds, listening for rain that never quite arrives, only the hush of elevators and distant freight threading the alleys with low brass.

A radio on a windowsill keeps the ghosts employed, their syllables a scatter of mica and salt; I turn the dial and find a childhood laugh caught between weather and sports.

The streets map themselves in brief electric pulses— crosswalks, sirens, a shutter's blink— each a small treaty with the dark, a promise that light can be counted.

When morning comes, the frequency fades, its last note ringing like a glass set down, and the day takes up its broad, ordinary work, carrying the night in its pocket.