Rooftop Greenhouse at 3 A.M.

The city keeps its engines under blankets of rain, yet on the roof a glass ribcage glows pale green. Tomato vines climb twine like quiet telegrams, and moths write soft static against the panes.

I open the door; warm loam lifts like bread. Basil sweats pepper and anise into the dark. Condensation pearls on steel, on my wrists, small planets choosing where to orbit.

Below, ambulances braid red through avenues, sirens thinning to threads by the river. Here, cucumbers thicken in patient spiral, learning the old grammar of water and light.

Before dawn, each leaf turns its listening face east. The skyline is a row of unstruck tuning forks. When morning finally enters, it does not announce itself: it tastes first of mint, then of sun on glass.