Men recently emerged from the sea
tend to sunshine, vanilla, and soft company
Men who have swum ashore
like to head home in late afternoon
carrying striped bags, ice cream cones.

    Men
leaving their armor, their halberds,
pitards in steaming salty sand,
like to dry themselves before the screen doors
of shops dry and scoured inside
     like the gleaming chestnut shell
     redolent chic cork, leather, polished driftwood.
But come time, they back against the sea,
arms spread to the stone cliffs.
Silently, reluctantly, they take their armor
     from the sand,
     wrap themselves in drying cords
     and belts
     of moss-green sea weed,
     pick up their king crab shells and
     barnacle-and-scallop crusted tridents,
          and walk slowly
          into the deepening tide.
When cars are parked and naked knees cooling
               under kitchen tables,
     The sun drifts to rest
     among tangled trees.
A buoy abandoned on a sand bar
comes to life with the tide.
The waves of the sea are briefly bowls to the sky.
The closing of the waves
Over the last wave of a limp hand
is the merciful end to a lingering goodbye.

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