It happens on an airplane —
metal bullet hurtling at 30,000 feet,
temporary home to a mere 200 souls.
It happens as the wheels lift off, as the
houses, roads, and people fall away,
shrinking as I rapidly gain

perspective.

It happens on the bus at the intersection
and as we trundle down the street.
It happens as the people beyond my window
jog and laugh and race and as some of them
shuffle along, stumbling over
a distraction of cell phones, clutched
in outstretched hands.

It happens in a singular moment as
I hold their stories, cupped in the cradle of my palms
as I pass unseen beyond
the screen of window’s glass.

It happens in the dark, at night
when I find the thud of my heartbeat
distracting as it thumps and stutters
in the cage of my chest.
It happens as each moment passes
one after each and every other
to the rhythm of my heart’s beat chanting
now and now and now and —

It happens when I close my eyes,
breathe in deep,
and marvel at my own fleeting presence
and comprehend my utter

insignificance.