Poets for Science
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T.O.E. /





In the farmland just outside Geneva

three thousand of the smartest people ever born

gather eating swiss chocolate looking for

the theory of everything.


Inside the molecules, inside the atoms,

inside the neutrons and electrons and photons,

inside the quarks and squarks,

the zinos and minos, and whatever the hell


else burst off to the side at yesterday’s car wreck of atoms,

inside everything lie rubberbands of energy,

the strings of existence,

humming like a wasp insistent, impatient.


The strings vibrate like music,

an a-note makes oxygen,

a g hydrogen, a c zinc.

One day, we will learn


to pluck them like a flamingo player

and change water to wine,

lead to gold, coal to diamond, cold

to hot, pain to pleasure, man to woman.


The problem with

the theory of everything

is that the real search is for

the truth of everything.


And the truth of everything is that

if you walk into a wall

every second for one million billion

years, one time, you will walk right through it.


The truth is that something

has always come from nothing

and that something becomes nothing

all the time, quietly and without explanation.




The summer night lowers itself

gently like an eyelashed eye

the perfect flat of farmlands

the distant baying of cows


I could fall into

the hidden dimensions

of you and stay there until

grass flowers out of your chest.


Mist rises from the mossy earth,

light low and lean.

We are left with the thought

that we will never be happier than we are now.


The truth of everything is translucent, the shadow behind

the mountains, the enormity beneath geometry.

It stares out at us

from inside the stones.


The truth of everything divides

us neatly down the middle,

twists us together

like colored twine.


The theory of everything,

the logos, the one base thing

that explains all matter and

all energy and all movement


is still waiting to be born,

still tuning up, preparing to

scream five octaves up the scale

and then gasp for air.