Last night the water rose
past our windows. The sun
twists and bulges above the surface.
Fish are everywhere; they nose round corners,
pouring in startling shoals out of closes,
nudging under cars and spiralling
up the staircases of buses.
They dart away from dirty boiling
out of drains, and hide among the branches
of the city trees. There is a distant
and mysterious orchestra,
but the rhythm of the undertow is stronger
and compelling downwards. My ribs
will spring apart like bucket handles,
my organs will unfurl and waft like ugly plants.
Frightened awake, I am clenched
tight in a burst accordion,
and all the bright fish are gone.