It is imperative that ideas do not inhibit mystery
                                        —Hai-yin (ca. 1282)

Because you fell fast through her shipwreck dream
red tides bit, kissed, cut you. Rusted iron
from ghost ships wounded you. Blood—white as cream—
spread and water grew transparent. Lungs tired.
Moonlight painted your bones white as paper.
Your legs still kicked—sense memory. Her face
focused bright through foam—the thinnest taper
you’d ever seen. The wreck shifts. You’re someplace
else—still on a doomed boat. Endless gray walls.
Boots ring on metal. Eternal gray halls
lead to a room. She waits as if she’d seen
the movie before. Knives, glasses, gray plates
are set. Past struggle, you watch her serene
smile. Days will break but nothing—nothing—waits.