There was some sort of event planned, though it seemed as if a dream, teamsters shuffling like skaters in a Holiday on Ice. Oh the lost shows of one's youth! the stranger thought, oh the memory of sequins.

He watched two closed canvas-covered carts waltz with teamsters across the broad concrete esplanade.

A sidewalk, he thought, or a side show.

Seashells she sells by the sea shore.

He longed to hold a woman. Selling cockles or gliding in a sequined leotard, it would not matter. He was lonely, considered the buttocks of a passer-by, the smooth cheek of a girl at the newstand. Imagined whores along a sea strand, the salt smell of seawide and the receeding tide.

Seaside, he meant.

One of them wants to steal a sunflower , a contour of sloped nubs, purloining the pleasure in a sudden reversal, a rhythm unknown but so precious i t's already named.