On Purpose

You can be mistaken. That’s allowable,
Necessary even, acknowledged among
The fiercest partisans of getting things done,

The ones who intend changes in direction,
Who intend to direct them. But be careful
About being overwhelmed with how you can

Be infinite, inwardly, and trivial
In the heaving sea. You have to get this right—
Which is it? The night only accumulates

Its endlessly vast repertoire of being
All its waves of force bursting and contracting
In patterns inevitable or random

But without actually wanting anything.
Or it is exactly that upheaval but
Purposeful, an entity that wants something.

Or it is exactly that upheaval but
Dotted and pocketed about with purpose,
Intention being some but not all of it.

Even with the lamp on you notice moonlight
Coming at you from the ground where it landed.
Somewhere out there, a once romantic partner

Lies curled around a fresh wound of rejection.
Purpose has to be something. People feel it.
How much of everything is it? Get it right.