Some

Some oh fuck moments are stone silent they don't crack the sound barrier before they meet the sea, this one was a man standing in a doorway half-asleep, realising he'd missed it.

Some grind through history, an iceberg and a ship's hull, keyed open like a sardine can, a song of sinking, a lament for lifeboats, decency and mathematics.

Some glass out from atoms, a chain of fission, elements, alive, then not alive, in a flash that fixes flesh to buildings.

Some are lost in the cacophony, a toy boat keystroke, swept away in data, resurfacing years later when economic theory makes us homeless.

Some oh fuck moments are spotlit and singular, a phone box ringing on a motorway bridge.
They don't change continents, shift ships, save Adam, they're two lids shuttering a tree falling on a philosopher, a pin we carry in a tin box and secretly, we sometimes prick our fingers.