A man with hair like my father,
full of air and black,
lays a transparency sheet
over a picture of Jupiter.
Look how small you are,
says Science, pointing
to a kitten-tongue
smudge on the cloudy surface of Jupiter:
This is North America,
his thumb a big You Are Here sticker.
I stop at a crosswalk to hear the earth move,
and announce into the Maine air:
I am small
do not matter
exist among the most minute
have no story bigger
than a fleck of white
pepper afloat in the snow
of one of Jupiter’s moons.
I am both comforted and scared,
like the bright red shimmer of police lights
through a stained glass window,
like unbuckling my seat belt
on the drive home to New Hampshire.