Listen
press your right ear
then your left
into the creeping ivy that took over everything
long
before you set foot in this place.  

It’ll be hard to spin the dial
low:  

bird song & electric hum & your neighbor’s questionable taste in men  

but there
just there  

—whatever it was that was always going to be—  
(that thing you were always going to hear)   

a bark beetle can hear the pop of water in the tree roots  

a baby chili can hear the fennel nearby, whispering sweet
—stay small—
terrible nothings.
so it grows
five
alarm
hot
before the song is too siren  

to think what fennel never learned about playing at gods  

The volunteer tomato whispered,
& whispers still

—growing only where you’re planted is a fool’s game—  

It is not your fault.  

Gardeners have inexpert & ungentle hands.