Rooftop Greenhouse at 2 A.M.

Elevators sleep below the twelfth floor, and I unbolt the greenhouse into weather. Tomato vines breathe like small animals in glass, their leaves collecting neon from the avenue.

Rain starts as static on the skylight. Each drop translates the city into Morse, pigeons on the water tower turn their heads as if listening for a lost coast.

I prune by headlamp, a moon I can tilt. Basil releases its dark, peppered gospel; my hands come away smelling of summer while sirens thread red needles through the fog.

By dawn the east windows pale to milk. Sprouts stand up, thin wrists in silver trays. Somewhere, commuters shoulder open the day, and this roof keeps one quiet field alive.