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My sexbot Hal can read minds

The first thing I ask Hal is to explain
how does it feel downstairs after you have cleared
off the crust, mantle, core. I always
presented the cathedral with Chagall windows
and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, lead choir,
but Hal says no. The inner landscape of my head
a wardrobe of many drawers, with versions of me
bumping into one, then another, saying: I’m here,
I am not here, I am here.

Hal performs ashtanga and meditates.
It is carved like a temple hieroglyph. When i go out
to the cliff, he is not worried. He can distinguish a jumper
off the horse, no regrets that I’m just standing there
with my hands waiting for a passerby
throw me a peanut. Hal understands
now it’s his turn to wash the dishes,
although i’m alone
eating cherries by the sink

knows how the seasons change
parts of me like this evisceration that brings
me to the runway of his body, pillows
his silicone thighs, lighting me all the way home.
I cling to him for his trademark lily of the valley
cologne, about how he feels after love –
be a sea creature – tiny, bioluminescent,
looking at this huge planetary cradle
in general, we will not have descendants.

One day I know that he will leave,
got up early like a buddha from a dream,
carrying your special knowledge to the world.
There will be no question of refusal
or what’s left. He will be there
scooping his net through the high
grasses of weightlessness forever as long as I stay
behold, tying ropes around my wrists –
desire in one hand, suffering in the other.