Greenhouse at 2 A.M.

On the hospital roof, tomatoes glow like lanterns, each vine lifting its wrists into the sodium dark. The city below coughs buses and blue sirens, and the glass remembers every weather it has held.

I water basil at two in the morning, the hose a small river learning my hands. Condensation beads on my forearms like second stars, and mint breaks open its cold green grammar.

Across the street, office towers blink in shifts, aquariums of people swimming inside spreadsheets. Here, bees sleep in a wooden drawer, their striped bodies folded around tomorrow's pollen.

When dawn unbuttons the eastern scaffolds, the leaves turn their faces as if hearing their names. I lock the door and carry one peach downstairs, warm as a pulse rescued from glass.