Yesterday someone told me that science was contingent and logic necessary.
I struck the stone – at first lightly
Then I dug in and drew blood.
Fractured assumptions flared their flimsy premise
Crumbling before less than mighty blows
This someone warned me if you crack too hard
The stone carries impact damage
Scaring the surface
Forcing you to sand and polish
That is if what you care about is something smooth and approachable.
Will this stone yield to me?
Or am I yielding to it?
My logic battering it tink after tink
Forces my theory that no matter what I do
This stone will be what it is
And it is up to me, flawed and frayed, to ask
The response is Wittgensteinien. Silent and yet understood
A brooding proposition of certain doubt
That nothing yields everything.