Thinking of Carl Sagan

I lie here
on the desert floor
out in the badlands
southeast of Milk River
thinking of Carl Sagan and
picking out constellations
and galaxies I'd never see
in a city engulfed and drowned
in its own glaring streetlights
stars hanging reassuringly
vast and familiar up there
packed sand reassuringly
solid under me
warm against my back
from the stored heat
of the gone day's sun
knowing that even
in this exquisite stillness
sand and stars move
and if I can find
this exact place
to lie tomorrow night
billions of stars
above me
millions of grains of sand
under me
thousands of cells
inside me
would have
moved
shifted
died
regenerated
and then I am
forced to consider
the almost equally
incalculably
high probability
that a notorious acquaintance
back home at this moment
is smoking strong pot
at the tired tailend
of the party I passed on
passing round tokes for the road
and through a bloodshot stare
he hopes is hypnotic
urging a couple of
suitably stoned female companions
to really think about infinity
in hopes of scoring big
with at least one of them
while she's still blown away
by the idea and the dope.