Apiary Above the Laundromat

At noon the roof gives off its penny heat, tar softening under the small white boxes. From the alley, detergent climbs in blue ribbons, and the bees lift through it as if through weather.

They comb the air above satellite dishes, gold stitches moving through the city's torn hem. A siren passes below like a bow on cello strings; even the windows tremble into brightness.

I uncap a hive and the smell arrives at once: wild thyme, wet wood, the dark sugar of summer. Inside, each body is a struck note continuing, a thousand amber engines teaching the light to thicken.

By evening the skyline wears a veil of pollen. Laundry turns slowly on the neighboring balconies. The bees return carrying fields no map can keep, and the roof, for an hour, believes it is a meadow.