The Orchard of Lost Satellites

In the orchard of lost satellites, metal apples drift where no wind reaches, each one humming a thin, unowned hymn.

Below, the city pours its light like sap, and I stand in the blue of late evening listening to antennas comb the dark.

Somewhere, a child presses an ear to the floor and hears the tides inside a broken map, a slow machinery of moons returning.

I keep a pocketful of small coordinates, seeds for a sky that hasn't been planted yet, and the horizon folds them into its hands.