The morning strolls onto the beach dusted with sunlight.
Arms.
Amputated legs.
Bodies that reintegrate themselves.
Floating heads of rubber.
Twisting the bodies of the swimming girls, the waves let down their shavings on the sawdust of the beach.
Everything is gold and blue!
The shade of beach umbrellas. The eyes of girls that inject themselves with novels and horizons. My happiness, in tennis shoes, bouncing me over the sand.
For eighty cents, the photographers sell the bodies of bathing women.
There are stands that exploit the drama of the surf. Broody hen maids. Irascible siphons, with sea extract. Rocks with sailors' seaweed-covered chests and spotted hearts of fencers. Flocks of seagulls, which fake the broken flight of a piece
of white paper.
And above all is the sea!
The sea! . . . rhythm of wanderings. The sea! with its slobber and with its epilepsy.
The sea! . . . until shouting
ENOUGH!
like in the circus.
-Vicente Huidobro-
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