Rooftop Conservatory at 2 A.M.

Elevators sleep with their mouths half-open. On the roof, glass ribs hold a small weather of basil. City sirens comb the dark into thin silver threads. I water leaves that shine like wet coins in a fountain of stars.

Heat pipes tick, patient as insects in wood. Tomato vines climb string as if reading braille skyward. From the avenue, neon spills up the stairwell, a red tide licking the ankles of clay pots.

Each seedling keeps a private clock of green decisions. When I touch the soil, it answers with earth-breath, loam and rain and the memory of older fields where tractors once drew straight hymns through dawn.

By morning, windows ignite across the towers. Commuters will pass beneath this hanging orchard never hearing the mint release its cool small bells. I leave with damp sleeves and a pocket full of daybreak.