Compost Constellation

At the edge of the city, a vacant lot hums with rain. Broken keyboards lie open like black-and-white ribs. Between their teeth, fennel lifts green flames. A sparrow tests a cracked screen for sky.

Motherboards darken into islands of moss. Copper veins remember every message, then let go. Worms thread the ports where chargers once clicked. The soil learns a new alphabet: rust, seed, light.

By noon, sun pools in a dish-shaped satellite. Water trembles there, holding a cloud like a coin. Children float paper boats across that brief galaxy. Their laughter bends the antenna toward earth.

Evening arrives smelling of mint and wet iron. What we discarded begins to pronounce tomorrow. In the weeds, a small tomato glows red as a signal. Night receives it, and answers with stars.