A draft minus 100 words.

I lied once,
well, many times,
but this is one time I did.
I said there was an old metaphor
in philosophy of science
that “science is like a peach”,
it has a definite form,
but there is diffusion
all over its skin.

From its meatier flesh there grows
a fuzz,
a fuzziness out into the air,
the air,
which is not made of peach.
There might still be form in a peach,
we might still talk of a peach as
A Whole Thing Unto Itself,
a category of

one peach.

Though there are
parts peach
which mingle with the unpeach.

I think it was a white lie?
Perhaps?
I wanted to convey
the Demarcation Problem
an old argument of

“What makes science not non-science?”

Because it parallels

“What makes art not non-art?”

“Peach” struck me,
in that moment,
a better metaphor
than Edmund Burke’s

Though no man
can draw a stroke
between the confines
of day and night,
yet light and darkness
are upon the whole
tolerably distinguishable.

“Night and day”,
too emphemeral,
so much just light,
where a peach is
all meat and stone.

And I’ve grown fond
of Voronsky, who said
“science is abstract,
art is concrete”.

Maybe I liked that
the peach seemed
so concrete
a concrete meat
a thought to put one’s hand around.

So not an old metaphor,
a new simile,
not made by me
but given up mysterious by the world
“fresh as if issued to children on a beach”.

How mystic.

But we still want definition
what is art like:
What Is Science?
What Is A Peach?

Art gets us at the world
the cement world
a world we cannot warp
by taking thought alone.

Art is paint that won’t run up a canvas.

Or: Art is the body in protest,
writhing with hunger or satisfaction.

Or: It only adds. I don’t understand how it subtracts.

And it says: This is!

Or: This is not!

And sometimes: This may be!

But it says it all, and tries
at least tries
not to be wrong.

And if art is wrong,
when it is a lie,
like my white lie,
when it thinks it has
succeeded in warping a world,
or added one cubit to its stature
with some scalpel of thought,
has it failed to be art?

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