Rooftop Conservatory at 4 A.M.

Above the laundromat, the greenhouse breathes in panes of rain. Tomato vines climb the ribs of copper pipes, and the city below clicks like cooling engines, each window a fish-scale turning in sleepless dark.

I water basil with a chipped blue mug; steam from the vents braids with mint and rust. Somewhere a freight train drags its iron choir, and leaves a low note trembling in the glass.

By four, the eastern towers begin to pale. Seedlings lift their thin wrists from black soil, as if listening for a name spoken softly, as if light were a door they have almost opened.

When morning finally spills over the rail, the roofs flare gold, then ordinary. I lock the hatch with damp hands and dirt moons, carrying leaf-scent down into the waking street.