Rooftop Greenhouse, Midnight

The city’s last elevator exhales me onto tar, where raised beds hold their dark like violins. Tomato vines climb the antenna mast, and rain collects in satellite dishes, warm as breath.

I uncap the hose; the water writes silver cursive across basil leaves and the rusted skylight. Below, sirens braid with nightclub bass, but up here moths orbit one patient bulb.

A bee, late from some impossible errand, sleeps inside a squash blossom, dusted in gold. I kneel, hearing seeds click open underground like tiny latches on a row of hidden doors.

By dawn the glass towers turn to pale apricots. Pigeons arrive, formal as old landlords. I carry down a crate of wet mint and peppers, the stairwell smelling briefly of a field.