At your friend’s wedding,

you stand next


to your ex-wife.

It is raining, and the rain


softens the world

so it bends and fades and replicates

itself


like ruined

film.


She is crying, your ex-

wife,


with her arms crossed

round her waist


in her wet

dress,

her shoulders shaking.


Years ago, you slept three nights

in a house that shook

like fever


and the bus went up the hill

outside the door


and her skin

shone like lost lanterns, bare and pale,

in the glow of the dim headlights.


You shift your hand

on the umbrella

that you brought


so that it shields her slightly

more.