Stations for Seedlight

At the last platform, midnight exhales iron and rain. A janitor wheels a moon of water through the fluorescent tide. In cracked tile seams, fennel wakes like a whispered map. The rails hum low, a cello tuned to departure.

I carry trays of basil under the city's sleeping teeth, set them beside vending machines blinking green constellations. Commuter posters peel, revealing older weather beneath, and every torn edge points upward.

By three a.m., the tunnels smell of pepper, soil, and coins. Sparrows from nowhere stitch brief shadows across the lights. Their wings strike sparks from dust, a small liturgy. Even concrete learns to loosen its fist.

At dawn, first trains arrive full of unfinished faces. They pass the leaves and do not know why they breathe deeper. I lock the gate, palms bright with chlorophyll and rust, and climb the stairs carrying a pocketful of morning.