Big.

BIG

   The pale, blue dot--one revolution
   that begat another. That space-lost orb
   careening without ether, but with a relativity
   that evolves the mind of a man, pink sausage
   built of neurons, no carbon, no quarks,
   vibrating
   with Hoist's celestial spheres.

   The collective conscience, built of decayed
   isotopes dated alongside the strata.
   To eat, to sleep, to make love--the animal
   is honesty. Nothing transcends the ape
   'les it be compassion. I could eat
   you.
   But I won't.

   Mixed between the ants and the stars, my brothers
   forget our place in time
   and space. We are quite literally built
   of galactic dust, and the worms
   will conquer each of us.
   The only thing we know of gods,
   my friends,
   is poetry.

O. David Johnson grew up in Southern Utah and started writing poetry at the age of fifteen. He has worked on both daily and weekly newspapers and his novel was awarded second place from the Utah Arts Council in 2006.