I could gather up old thoughts the way
a mind distant in love brings about a gathering
of stars. I don’t want people thinking

I don’t care about the future. Plenty of people
are wrong about how I feel. For instance,
I bought a bar of soap to remind me

of a clean time coming, the smell of it.
Even I wasn’t right about how I was feeling then.
Embattled by a sense of honor,

I plotted to bring the smell of Lysol
like metal on teeth straight into the future.
Some thoughts, being in them feels

like a battle to let a rare look inform me
of how delicate and uncrackable I am.
How like an egg I can just roll myself

under the heart in the exact right way,
let it exert its pressure on my poles
and never crush me. The stars,

a gathering of paper under which
we may be crushed. I was about to be proud.
I felt a late wish of pride unfurling.

When we arrive from distant cities cracked
with love I don’t know if I’ll want my new hands
to work any differently than the hands

I stashed in the drawer.
And yet by the smell of the gathering sky
I am arranged and disrupted!