Reconstruction

by Farryl Last

Think of me in my red dress in the park the humid almost-summer
in the rocks around me the damp of the grass and the train station near
but not near enough. Think of the dirt path. Think of the city almost starless.
Think of me deciding to make blue orbs from the night air and the cup
of my hands and the curve of my knuckles as I lifted
them, glasslike, to the sky. My fingers made a sieve.
Think of me not as I am.
Think of me not as I was.