Seed Transit

Morning opens its metal mouth, turnstiles click like beetle shells. In my pocket: a paper packet of basil, its tiny legends rattling against my pulse.

The train arrives, a long breath of iron. We slide inside, a hive of coats and screens, each face lit by its private weather, while the tunnel makes a slow river of sparks.

Above us, roofs gather rain in shallow bowls, antennas comb the air for messages. I imagine a balcony in June, the basil unfurling like green hands after sleep.

At my stop, the city spills me into light. I cross streets painted with yesterday’s traffic, carrying a garden no one can see, the seeds warm as coins in my palm.