The storm had passed through –
the bric-a-brac, hurly burly, the rough and tumble
racketing down the road:
a clothes horse at full sail
pegged with blown linen
a bamboo chime, the word wind
exaggerated and lit up inside it
an assortment of playthings
and part of a mannequin breaking down
in the dark.

We had a window table at the House of Fish.
Raining light had given the upper arm
of the woman at the next table
a tattoo that appeared, from this angle
to be a flickering school
of whitebait, turning full circle.

We had ordered rudderfish
despite its reputation as a laxative.
The windows were double-glazed
with what was being thrown from the sky and sea
and the woman’s tattoo was gone.
In its place, a rain-beaded swirl
like a graft of skin, as when
alarmed by the permanent nature
of what they’ve done, people
will trade one form of scarring for another.

Wind proved the elasticity of glass
by bending, alarmingly, the pane
we were looking through.
I ran the gauntlet and made it home
just in time: the rudderfish, the rain and wine.