Lovelock says science is never certain or exact.
The best we can ever do is express our knowledge
in terms of probability. We’re probably fucked,
but preciser unpleasantries often serve to distract
us from the fact of it: utility bills, inadequate storage.
Lovelock says science is never certain or exact,
but only pretends to be, like I’ll pretend to connect
deeply with people to nudge risk of personal damage
from the realm of probability. It’s probably fucked
up, but I like it: in the evening air, we construct
our panic room made of fellow feeling, a shark cage
love locks. Say science is never certain or exact,
and Science says: Baby, I don’t have to be. Cause and effect
alone can’t account for what sick things emerge
from the goo of probability. You’re too beyond fucked
at this point to reverse it, but get one thing correct:
I couldn’t have done it without you, or your language.
Lovelock says science is never certain or exact,
but like the rat in its laboratory, we’re at where we’re at.