If science is your faith, theory you cannot see
Teaches you it’s safe not to appreciate me.
Shouldn’t the moon move the clouds—just as it moves the sea?
What is an orb? What is a line? And what is gravity?
The earth is flat—that’s how it looks to me.
Science is science because of one thing: predictability.
But if prediction proves
Objects are objects, what predicts what loves?
If prediction predicts how something moves
What is the ultimate thing that moves?
Prediction predicts something, but does
Not tell us what something is,
Or why something is, or why it does what it does.
More radical even than the renegade of the flat earth,
I question even what seeing is worth.
The image projected on the back of my eye,
Could be a lie—
As science and faith must be:
A partial, pretty falsity
In which I spied you loving me.
