The Physicist at the Clinic

The universe is out of tune. Just try

and play it. Can’t you hear the equations

clashing like broken chords?

Note how Einstein floats up from the coffee table,

how his hair is woven with prophecies.

Now take a look around the room. See that woman

in the lime green coat, the watery folds of her umbrella,

the way her health seems to be

perpetually slipping off her ring finger?

Everything’s brimming with chaos,

particles rapping chance like nobody’s business.

You could walk through that door and be benign.

You could walk through that door and be

You could walk through that door and

Maybe all I’ve got is a bad case of theory.

Ghosts wracking my mind in eleven dimensions.

I use Hawking’s wastebasket for a washboard.

Riffs overflow out of my pockets

but every time I think I’ve found God’s

draft of the Ninth Symphony

a string of numbers unravels the universe.

If I find all the clocks traveling at the speed of death,

wrap each second in an infinity of zeroes,

will I still see you

hurrying toward me across a galaxy of asphalt,

life’s bright scarf

thrown over your dark hair?