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.