Such People in It

Eight billion, with one or two
Hundredish thousand leaving
Or being born, per diem,

Every rotation you live
The entire composition
Shifting by a city’s worth,

Right now, hundreds of thousands,
Millions of different lives
Than just a few days ago,

A rounding error no one
Can exactly keep track of,
Like those cells you shed in bed

Sleeping, dreaming of being
A universe to yourself.