The seahorse in the aquarium clings to coral. Its fluted little mouth, perpetually whistling. In herd, they all cling by curl of tail to the forest of coral, sway in unison to the passing of larger, more awkward fish. The dark cool of the Mexican aquarium. Above us, the searing street, the vendors, the market, hotel room and its nights of crying, cantina with its rocking bull and beautiful girls and bathroom with the waving, wobbling mirror and waving, wobbling reflection. Above us, the sick old man from Canada and his bag of dope and his longing for a nice young girl to live with at Hotel Mexico. The street dogs and cathedrals and just beyond the nagging heat, the relentless ocean. At its bottom, stillness, like the dark quiet of the aquarium, the swaying of the herd of seahorses. Smell of leaking saltwater, insufferable pressure of sea water on the panes of glass. I think of them bursting, of seahorses in my hair, my mouth, of us being swept into the street, fish and sharks and tourists and coral and seahorses, all into the street, into the market where there’s stink of dead sole, half-dead lobster. The brine smell of displacement.