Rooftop Apiary at Dawn

Before the shops unlatch their metal throats, the roof is already speaking in pollen and tin. Five white hives stand in the blue half-light like accordions waiting for the first warm hand.

The bees rise slowly, then all at once, gold commas loosening from the page of morning. They move through steam from the bakery vents, through the laundry's breath, through satellite dishes pearled with rain.

Below them, buses kneel and exhale at the curb. Above them, the sky opens its pale enamel bowl. Each body carries a rumor of clover from vacant lots no map bothers to remember.

When the sun catches on their furred backs, the whole roof begins to ring more brightly. I think of sweetness as a labor of distances, something gathered stitch by shining stitch from the city's torn sleeve.