Roofline Constellation

At dusk the rooftops unzip their heat, and hives along the brick lip wake like embers. Bees rise through laundry lines and radio static, small engines threading the blue between antennas.

Neon leaks from windows into their fur, a pollen of sirens, basil, hot metal rain. They map the avenues by taste and vibration, reading the air the way pianists read dark keys.

Above them, satellites blink in patient circles, tin gods counting weather over the river. Below, a child waters mint in a paint bucket, and every leaf becomes a green bell ringing.

When midnight lowers its black sail, the swarm folds home, gold dust in their knees. The city keeps humming through the comb walls, a borrowed cosmos, warm and hexagonal.