goal

every act calculated

towards an end is an act

of futility.

i’m sorry.

 

every act offered for the joy

of acting, or failing

that, for at least

the chance to burn,

to move, to feel

something and not

nothing—the blurt

of a goat, the pulse

of muscle, the way

your dog’s eyebrows

dance as they try

to make out

what you mean—

every such sputter

of eternity

is the song

you’re after.