Greenhouse Beneath the Avenue

At midnight the subway exhales iron rain, and beneath platform dust a locked room hums. Glass ribs hold a forest of labeled sleep, seeds small as commas, waiting in the dark.

A woman in orange gloves turns each drawer like opening winter letters from vanished farms. Corn from a valley now a reservoir, bean skins thin as moons against her palm.

Above us, taxis braid their brief constellations, neon trembles in puddles, breaks, reforms. Down here, time is stored in paper envelopes, a choir of futures folded without sound.

When the grid flickers, backup lamps bloom amber; the room becomes a lantern under stone. She writes the date, closes another tray, and the city keeps breathing over roots of light.