DREAM OF THE MEN

At the beach that was so gray it seemed stone—

gray water, gray sky, gray blanket, and the wind

some sort of gray perpetual motion machine—

we gathered like a blustery coven on the blanket

from Mexico woven with white and gray threads

into a pattern of owls and great seabirds. Then,

they came: the men. Blankets full of them, talking,

talking, talking, talking, and our mouths were sewn

shut with patient smiles while they talked about

the country where they were from; their hands

like slick seaweed were everywhere, unwelcome,

multicellular, touching us.