Greenhouse on the Roof of Winter

At the edge of April, wind unbuttons the river, and rooftop gutters wake like flutes in a dark room. Someone has planted basil in chipped porcelain cups; their leaves hold morning as if it were warm milk.

Below, trains drag sparks through tunnels of rain, windows carrying brief republics of light. A child presses her palm to the glass and maps the city by fog and fingerprints.

On the antenna, a crow balances the weather, black punctuation against a sky still revising itself. I hang shirts on a wire between chimneys and they become small sails for an inland sea.

By dusk, the bricks exhale their stored sun. The basil smells like pepper and green thunder. Night climbs the stairwell quietly, bucket by bucket, watering every silence until it blooms.