It creeps down the side
of the credenza, spilling onto the shelves below
before climbing again, gaining purchase
in minute crevices where paint
appearing flat
is not.

The vine spawns more
vines, fat leaves
unfurling from a ration of soil
I dumped in the pot
a year ago.
I have trimmed it back
twice, down to the nubs,
sure if I allowed it to grow unfettered
it would burst its seams
and shrivel
in this dim office
cut by a narrow fraction of glass
facing north.

Yet it keeps coming back.
Curling around corners, heedless
of borders, it feeds off that old handful of dirt,
flaunting its green like the Amazon
canopy, thirsting for nothing
but sips from the tap.
Barring my scissors,
it would carpet the floors
drape the walls
drip from the ceiling
and steal down the back of my chair
until it could slip
inside my collar, whispering
against my throat
its secret
for licking at nothing
and still swelling
with a bellyful
of yes.

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