Is There a Poem in the House?

Sometimes it appears in the cracks–
Between moments or between words–
And suddenly I know
It is in the room,
Hiding under a vase
Or slipping behind me
Sneaky as a ghost,
Watching me, stalking me,
Or seated beside me
Like a Sunday guest.
Sometimes it appears
Out of thinnest air
Like lint or dew,
Or rises like vapors
From recesses of the room.
Sometimes it bleeds through the walls,
Seeps through the wallpaper,
Like radiation on the loose,
Or builds up in the pipes
Like angry steam,
Or drips from the books,
Like melting ink.
But there are times
When the room is filled with cavities–
Minute abysses–
Where poems used to be.