I'd call that a science-less poem. The people in Geneva have seen the Higgs Boson the same way we all see everything around us - by catching particles bouncing on it. Unless the big difference is that they didn't do it with the naked eye, which I never do anyway but possibly the poet isn't shortsighted.

I'm sad for the author, and sadder for the New Yorker. Couldn't they find someone to write a poem involving a level of understanding beyond a five-year old? Or as Feynman said, What men are poets who can speak of Jupiter if he were a man, but if he is an immense spinning sphere of methane and ammonia must be silent?
PS Feynman was of course sexist, possibly a bit more than average for his birth year, but not much.