Intention

Is more of a problem than life,
Thinner in extent, murkier

Of origin. At least with life,
One can say, On this one planet,

Unquestionably, and maybe
On more, having started sometime

Early in the planet’s career,
Confined within this atmosphere,

Requiring certain substances
Engaged in certain reactions—

But intention? It could be God’s,
If that’s what you yearn to believe,

Could be universal, from time
Immemorial, before time,

Or it could be local, could be
Emergent property of life

Or of intelligence or of
Certain forms of intelligence

And only those—or maybe not.
Or maybe it’s the property

Of the only species so far
Known to express concern for it,

And as to what its rules may be,
Its mechanisms, sufficient

And necessary—all guesses.
Intention may not, actually,

Be, even in human beings,
Beyond an existence as code

For the embodiment of need
Refined through evolved strategies

That happened to succeed. Meaning
Might have been unintentional.

Indicative, informative,
Sure, meaning is. Intentional?

Is what you meant to mean in you
As intention or volition?

And let’s just say we let it in—
Will it not keep rolling backward?

Grant human meanings intention,
Then whatever’s responsible

For the facts of human meanings
Must be mother of intentions.

Apologies. Such a long-skeined
Poem was never our intention.