As if | all countries | were far-off countries | It was the way | he walked into the house | The moon | full of ghosts | Her voice | set the scared | rabbits dashing | She was saying | But I really do love you | In a poachers’ darkness | the path to the prey | and the pelts themselves | velvet and open

It just wasn’t | going to work | Like trying to hug a ship | But she wouldn’t | accept it | There were furrows and lines | breaking up | what was only | one thing, after all | as a ploughed field | is only earth

He could feel the trees | growing up through the public square | the streets | school-rooms | The fruit was cool in his hand | and he admired | its weight | compactness | precision | The air seemed scented with her laughter | so light | so fresh | so careless

But it wouldn’t mean anything | There was a parched feel to the day | to her life | Like heat | trapped in class-rooms | over the summer | with the children away | His thoughts evaporated | like white steam | The trees | shed their seeds | into engines | swimming pools | the carriages | of motionless trains

 


from the series construct (2012–present, ongoing)