Rooftop Honey at First Light

Before the trains begin, the rooftops breathe in tin and dew. A keeper lifts the lid from a hive like opening a warm book. Smoke curls thin as violin sound over satellite dishes. Bees rise, bright punctuation in the pale grammar of morning.

They comb the city for pollen the parks forgot to hide, touching balcony basil, linden bloom, a crack-side daisy. Below, buses cough, bakery vents sigh cinnamon into alleys, and every window catches a small gold weather.

By noon the frames grow heavy with amber weather reports. Wax moons seal their chambers; summer hums behind each wall. On the fire escape, a child holds out an orange peel as if the sun could be fed back to itself.

At dusk, jars line the sill, each one holding a district of light. The keeper writes dates on lids, not knowing whom it will sweeten. Night lowers its blue curtain over antennas and laundry lines, and the hive keeps singing in the dark, low and luminous.