Do plastic bags grow down from trees and fall
onto the ground creating shards of glass
to wither into concrete slabs of joy?

Do rainbows come from oil spills and leap
above the sky? Just south of
Roosevelt
the grass and trees no longer grow as green,

but mattresses in alleys have a buoyancy

worth jumping for and neighbors' sugar tastes
as good as mama's in cold lemonade.
Our one-sized gloves do not fit all, but paint
their colors on our hands.
The shrieking swings,
once welcoming our presence, now protest

our growth. The cusp of faith and knowledge pleads
to tip us either way at once. The bliss
of knowing nothing and the constant pain

of wanting to collide, falling southward.