If I could string my worries like beads
arrange the mismatched palette of forms
to a gratifying yet surprising pattern  

I might choose to wear the bracelet
rub beads’ pointed edges smooth
shine them with traces of day’s rhymes
ice them when they fume and swell
threatening to bruise one another  

I could leave them home one day
to tangle in a waiting box  

or stand mid-bridge and break the string