Rooftop Conservatory at 3 A.M.

The city keeps its iron heartbeat under me. On the roof, glass ribs hold a private weather. Tomato vines climb strings like green handwriting. Moths tap the panes, small knuckles asking in.

I water basil and the leaves answer with spice, a dark, bright breath that cuts through diesel and rain. Far below, buses drag their lit aquariums. Above, Orion tilts a bucket of cold fire.

Each seedling is a mouth learning the word morning, opening slowly in the fluorescent hum. My sleeves smell of soil, pennies, and river mud, as if an older country were stitched into the cuffs.

When dawn begins, the towers lose their neon skins. Pigeons lift like torn receipts into the pale. I lock the door, hands damp, pockets full of stems, and carry one wet leaf home like a green bell.