Times of Imperfection

Do you remember when we met the
Sea God trapped in silver
by the shore?

We were skipping pebbles in the sea
and he
was everywhere.

"Love," he said, "has been forbidden
in this place since time and tide
came knocking."

He was tall and terrible in chains
so seaweed strong they choked us, he
was oyster blind, his sin was made
of sand.

You took my hand.
We trembled.

He sent me to a room with white-washed walls,
a ruler in my hand, alone.

He said, "When you have traced
ten thousand perfect lines
you may go free."

But it was nicked, my ruler. Each line was chipped
and the creamy stream of paper
spooled forever
out ahead.

Then you said
(in the emptiness of my hopeless head)
"Love, have you never leaped between the lines?"
And so I slipped through imperfection blue
into your arms.

Do you remember?
When I woke, you were breathing
there beside me, and I whispered,
"What a dream,"
but just as always, you
were sleeping.