THE evening sulks along the shore, the reddening sun
reddens still more on the blatant bodies of these all-but-naked,
sea-bathing city people.
Let me tell you that the sun is alive, and can be angry,
and the sea is alive, and can sulk,
and the air is alive, and can deny us as a woman can.
But the blatant bathers don’t know, they know nothing;
the vibration of the motor-car has bruised their insensitive bottoms
into rubber-like deadness, Dunlop inflated unconcern.