Rooftop Conservatory at 2 A.M.

Between satellite dishes, basil lifts its dark-green wrists. Rainwater barrels breathe metal and moon. The city below clicks through red and amber syllables, while tomatoes hold small lanterns under their skins.

I thread a hose between HVAC lungs, past cables warm as sleeping snakes. Every window across the avenue is a different weather: one blue aquarium, one storm of television snow.

A moth drums the glass and enters nowhere. Mint releases cold light when I bruise it. On the fire escape, a foxglove leans like a listening ear, collecting sirens, collecting church bells, collecting dawn.

By morning the towers will return to numbers and meetings, but for an hour this roof is a wet orchestra pit. Leaves tune themselves against the wind, and I go downstairs smelling of earth and electricity.