Prophelactic

cryogenically frozen chunks of Einstein’s 
brain, hurled into space because
scientists have run out of things to explore.
the universe is solved, but the scientists
are restless and don’t know why, so maybe 
not as solved as they think it is. Nonetheless,
the robots are coming.
So says The Book of Whale Secrets: “Thus 
the gods shall wonder at the quartz eyes,
and the merely decorative steel genitals, 
the only part of the machine 
that will serve the humans faithfully.” 
And the scientists will probably frolic
for at least a little while, in the fields
that corporate barons send the robots into,
where precious teenagers come at night
to shine flashlights on the genitals
for reasons they can’t explain. So maybe
not as solved as we think it is. Nor as large
or as angry. As much a function 
of the technical spirituality of the alchemists
as it is a battery that constantly recharges
the glass heart of God. It loves the motions
of the frozen chunks. They resemble 
the first elliptical mumble
from which lovable matter surfaced
out of convalescence. They are the godliness
that will be the next God. Once the robots
subtract the loneliness 
from the scientists’ equations. So maybe 
the universe longs 
to be free of solution, longs to be two words 
merging into one moment of quiet. Or maybe,
like an antelope in a prophecy about robots,
it drinks from a pool of water,
softly quenching its thirst.