Ryan Downum

I Search in the Dark for a Tiny Apocalypse

Sunlight sprouts from a pot
of dirt and I shake myself
clean in the breeze.
I tightly clutch some made-up
algorithm and walk into the forest.
Sometimes I only want to eat ice cream
with a tiny spoon. There is a certain oblique
feeling opening its many mouths, an act
of sincerity like stuffing a mailbox
full of ribbons and bows, constructing
a birdhouse where there was
no birdhouse before. A knock on the door
and the clouds shift slightly southward. When I think
about my fears I do so mathematically.
I draw shapes I don't know the names of
then bless the crooked sky.

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