The Interloper

You should see the tomatoes I can grow. Every summer. I have come behind some planter and found her secrets, crystals in the ground, mirror shards in the garden, dimes in the driveway gravel like fallout of unknown frequencies, fractal coastline of intersecting matter. I collect them, suspicious they might not be mine. I am addicted, unable to suspend the urge toward "mine"-ness. Cannot tune my RAM to register, "Just pass by the thing."