After the party, the trees at the playground
are as smooth as screams. The creak of the swing-
chain sounds like the opposite of translation.
I do not explain myself to the woodchips.
I am not scared of the wind’s yelling
that crawls through the wooden tunnels.
Here I am, dangling from bars. I like this.
How my distortion refocuses. How safety
may not look like we think it does.
Like a blanket fitting as a cape. Like darkness as a form
of light. When I wake I am still lying in the grass.
Good. Self-forgiveness bounces across the rubble.
My father told me that the slides are not built
to withstand the weight of children, but rather
for the grown man who slides down the dark tube
alone. Somewhere a boy cries for light like a moth.
Can you find him? His pendulum swings erratic.
He will tell you that his house is nearby.
Believe him. Please. Walk back into the street.
