Rooftop Conservatory at 3 A.M.

Between satellite dishes, basil lifts its wrists to rain. The city hums below like a refrigerator in another room. Neon washes the leaves in aquarium blue. I water each pot and hear the soil answer in steam.

A train turns the horizon, iron violin, sparks scattering over the river's black glass. Tomato vines climb string as if rehearsing escape, their small green planets cooling in the dark.

On the next roof, laundry snaps like prayer flags of ordinary saints. A fox appears, rust-colored, pauses by the vent fan. We regard each other through the breath of warm ducts, two late creatures keeping watch over sleeping windows.

By dawn, the first tram threads light through the fog. Mint bruised between my fingers becomes a bright bell. The sun rises out of scaffolding and cranes, and every wet leaf opens its mouth to the day.