Sometimes, sitting here in the park, I forget
the bonds of sand that hold me to the bench,
and I don’t let your lines mark me too easily,
like that shape of airliner, bubbles of zinc
from a bath of acid for metals, the clear blue
pierced the way a lacquered chopstick
penetrates seaweed and rice to the tuna roll,
leaving something for the fingers
to roll, a ginger examination of self, the rivets
of taste buds rumbling loose in the satin
aftertaste like eyelids staring too long
over a field finally, restricted by the cost,
folding together, the cards on the table
too severe, the bluff over the water, the bay.
I can cut you out of mind if I call you, ring,
cellophane, bandwidth, restricted use: foreign.