The Greenhouse of Fallen Satellites

In the scrub beyond the town's last light an old greenhouse leans, ribbed with solar glass, inside, the air is warm as a held breath, and small leaves keep the color of distant screens.

On a table, a bowl of screws and mica arranged like constellations you can touch. We water seedlings with a spoon, each drop a soft reentry.

Some nights the radio still sputters, old coordinates speaking through mint and rust. We listen for names, for the thud of metal, for the quiet midwives of meteors.

By morning the panes sweat and clear, the sky reflected back in shattered squares. We leave the door unlatched so the wind can read what we have grown.