Edward Hopper's "Gas"

Are we really trapped in solitude,
merely
objects in random motion
isolated from everything else,
hidden as our minds are
among our cells,
so hidden
we wonder if some hidden purpose
jangles the atoms
between our skin
ordering us this way and that,
we know not where

or are we actually
oases of order,
DNA’s intricate patterns defeating
for a few precious
miraculous moments
nature’s tendency
toward inevitable disorder,

our raison d’etre
not to be ordered