Rooftop Greenhouse, 3 A.M.

The city keeps its invoices of light, windows stapled to towers, white and sleepless. Above the sirens, basil leaves exhale a wet, peppered breath against the glass.

Condensation beads like small planets, rolling down panes where moonlight thins. Tomato vines lift their wrists to the rafters, green as river water over stone.

I turn the hose and a silver arc briefly writes its cursive in the dark. Somewhere a train grinds sparks from the rails; here, seedlings open like quiet mouths.

By dawn the skyline loosens its neon collar. Pigeons land, deliberate as old librarians. In each pot, black soil holds a private weather, and morning arrives leaf by leaf.