Six rooms of light, left slightly open.

A small gallery of new poems — night markets, glass harbors, and rain that learns the city’s colors. Choose a card, or let chance choose for you.

Midnight Oranges

The market clocks have gone to sleep. Someone still peels an orange in the dark.

The last train keeps its violet windows. Tickets flutter like moths against the glass.

Boats knock softly in a harbor made of glass. Each hull holds a different hour of light.

Ash writes letters on the stove’s black mouth. I read them before they cool.

Rain takes the neon and strings it in the street. Pink, then green, then a color with no name.

Above the roof, a quiet constellation waits like punctuation the night forgot to use.