Greenhouse at Midnight

At midnight the greenhouse unbuttons its breath, panes fogged with thumbprints of rain and neon, tomato vines listening to ambulances thread red needles through the sleeping blocks.

Basil lifts a dark, peppered perfume, as if the moon were grinding stone and leaf; water beads along the rail like small planets, each one carrying a room-sized weather.

I touch the soil and find it warm as memory, worms writing slow cursive beneath my wrist. Above, office towers blink in patient code, constellations rented by the hour.

By dawn the glass will clear to ordinary light, but now every stem is a tuning fork, and the city, leaned against this roof, hums itself back into something alive.