She was in the habit of forgetting things | Two lines of ants, making their way | to and from | the discarded half | of grapefruit | She loved his stillness, the knack he had | of growing poised | as if he were sitting | for a study | by a famous artist | The book in his hand | How the mirror in the bedroom | fashioned the sunlight on clear mornings | in spring | The plectrum | for her guitar

Where do you draw the line? | For the past few months, he felt as if | he had been | falling off a cliff, but that now, at last | the ground was || It was a beautiful painting | looking away | seemed a minor sin | but what could you do? | Still, the wheat swallowed him | and the crows cast such smooth shadows | as they flew

The train had bundled up a collection of lives | wrapped them in carriages | When their love was at its most acute | it felt almost unbearable | She had the sense | her life was being densely | packed with intensely | important things | the gleam | of the edge of a button | on his jacket’s sleeve | the feel | of the brush | as he pulled it | slowly through her hair | He realised there was something terribly wrong | when she wasn’t there | at the airport | to meet him

Clothes drifting out of style | Windfall fruit | Ghost towns | Washing left overnight | on the line | How her lips tasted | coated with rum | His passion | for Scandinavian bands | Blue plastic tongs | at the picnic site | Novels you leave off | part way through | Not quite saying | what he meant | The trapped | ant’s antenna’s last | twitch | as the sun | slips away | and the amber | hardens



from the series construct (2012–present, ongoing)