Greenhouse of Midnight Trains

At the last platform, rain hangs in bright threads between sodium lamps and the dark mouth of the tunnel. A violin leaks from someone's phone, thin as steam rising from a paper cup.

Beneath the tracks, roots pry open old concrete, learning the map by touch and pressure. Moss writes slow cursive on the retaining wall, a wet alphabet no timetable can erase.

When the train arrives, windows carry borrowed skies: office light, kitchen light, a child awake at midnight. Faces bloom and fold like night flowers, each stop a brief pollination of strangers.

After it leaves, silence keeps the rails warm. The city inhales through grates and gutters. Somewhere a seed splits in the dark, certain dawn is only a station ahead.