Let the Pieces Lay

From some darkened deep did the rains
pour. Our images of one another were
dripping wet. We cried, we laughed, and were
terrified. I, king of fools, you, queen of
gestures. And the tears became suspended in
air, in their stillness the light reflected, and
we saw. The radiant light penetrated the cold
images, and they broke like fine crystal glass.
We panicked, cutting our feet as we ran.
Frantic bleeding hands try to put the pieces
together. After so long, suddenly, it seems,
we do not know each other. Bewildered and
strickened, all this! from simple gestures of
intimacy. The pieces are brittle. Cry, and die a
little. Laugh, and die a little. I want to live! Let
our bodies heal. Let the pieces lay.

Dale Sprague is a retired technical and science writer. He lives in Seattle near his three children who he sees often, and as a neighbor to the mother of his children, they remain in a relatively good state of grace with one another, if they remain as neighbors. His work has appeared PoetryFest, Ashland, Oregon, Hwong Publishing, Los Alamitos, California, The World of Poetry, California, and currently, Fulton Books.