Silent Treatments Poem by Lamont Palmer

In the room there are the makings of dreams.
Each item (balsam wood or not) adrift
on purpose, whether we talk, grin or stare,

whether barriers are fortified beauties.
Reality becomes the wholesome sun,
eclipsed, like the moon has grown big as its source,

quieting the sounds: gravity's heft and haste
to make of the lone man, an aphorism.
In this room wordlessness is not wrong,

but a longing; a dirge from the eye's basement.
Stay awhile. Last until that version of events
has died, leaving only the dust of stalemate.