The atmosphere outside is
too thin to breath, but if you could
see the cloud tops
lit up in 5:30 P.M. gold thread gauze,
sweating blood red where the Earth curves
away into night and feel
the press of apparatus to your mouth and
the heft of your pressure
suit against your skin
hugging you tighter than any love
you ever thought you knew,
with afterburners
daring you to lick the stars
and black depths beyond your canopy
you would cut the power too and slip,
speeding meteoric,
through the mist,
tipping your wings and sliding sideways
through the streams of fire light
to revel in the slow
persisting orgasm of the vertigo,
rolling in and kissing
the whole of humanity
breaking and tumbling loose beneath you
as you spin into her cradle grave and
relish the tug and war of elemental force
so many of them will know
only by degrees
