I have a unified field theory too,
by Michael Philips
because I like the word “field”
with its grasses and wind in my hair.
My unified field theory is
written in the gravity of phrases
scribbled in ink by technicians and lovers,
longing for meaning in glass containers,
hunting for new DNA strains
that sweep and swoon like violins
and can link that first pungent smell
of the garlic squeezed in the press
to the idea of a constantly expanding universe.
Of course it’s expanding.
How could Einstein have thought otherwise?
That he got it wrong is hardly comforting.
The aging star, sniffing at quantum upstarts,
craving a unity based on geometry,
infusing newfound meaning in
a shape from a child’s coloring book or
a passenger’s wave behind glass
from a departing train.