Saltbook at 3 A.M.

Under sodium lamps, the pipes breathe like old brass, a slow choir warmed by the pulse of hidden pumps. The sea arrives in dark, unbroken paragraphs, and every valve turns a comma into rain.

Salt climbs the rails in a pale, glittering fur, while gauges bloom with green and amber moons. My gloves smell of iron, kelp, and lightning; I write my name in steam on the stainless skin of dawn.

Outside, gulls drift through the blackout like torn receipts, and inland windows wait with their dry mouths open. Inside, membranes hum their thin glass music, separating thirst from the bright, bitter archive.

By shift’s end the tanks hold a quiet cathedral, clear water stacked in invisible bells. I clock out carrying one cool cup of morning, and the horizon tastes less of distance.