Mixed Mission

Crawl with me
To the gray, coveting airlock:
Metal grip to metal frame,
Magnetism enough for all.

There,
Ribbons of air and fists
Of pressure lure us seditiously in,
Though still we will remain
Stubbornly free of our weight.

Your symptomatic suit is lifeless without
Your body in it. It can be lifted
With any one of a dozen fingers,
Yet it retains the hollows of your form.

Our increase in air kisslessly flattens
Your feathers, and you must know
That in all of my coming sleep cycles my back
Ground brain activity will be:
The soft down that leaks luridly out
As the air strokes you; you, as sinfully,
As nutritiously naked
As technology can delightfully deliver you.

I cannot help it.
It is the look and false feel
Of gravity and the sudden
Brazier of air that sends my coriander
Blood to sound my grappling regions of ill-timed readiness.

Every one of them.