No Worry Poem by Cole Swensen

No, worry about nothing
but the chiseling
of hills into distance
in the slight haze

and sleep lost over color
no two ever the same

the wringing hands
float ashore amazed.
Worry about beauty.
It can sell you anything.
Lakes collect in the
chambers of the heart
where the sailboats are made
of flying fish about
the size of match heads.

Sleep can be lost as
easily as a house key,
the shock can consume
at any moment
if the hills are not rising
weather is wearing them down
and you are driving
north in the late afternoon
or holding your eyes
in your hands like addresses.