Under the Asphalt, a Forest

At dawn the avenue sweats tar and rain, bus tires comb silver water from the curb, beneath the crosswalk, white threads wake, quiet as breath inside a sleeping flute.

They taste rust, coin, spilled coffee, thunder, translate broken glass into patient grammar, passing messages root to root in the dark, a republic of lanternless hands.

Above them, cranes lift steel like weather, sirens braid noon into a hard bright rope; below, the hidden orchard keeps widening, feeding on engines, grief, and leaf-mold memory.

One night a sidewalk buckle becomes a seam, ferns unzip moonlight through the concrete; the city keeps its name, but softer now, as if spoken with soil still on the tongue.