Satellites really knock me out,

the way they join the dots,

the way a carpet-trader deep
in the Soud calls his uncle Faisal

at the Moore Park Supa Centa,

the way a called-up beleaguered
Little League coach calls in an air-strike

from the carriers, louche and polished

in the Gulf. And at the end of every call,
what I'm left with is a belief

in the possibilities of language

to truthfully and energetically
communicate experience, thought and feeling,

co-ordinates and intensity,

quality and quantity, fully landed cost
and now my final cheerios to dad and mum ?±

from this lofty New Zealand mountaintop

where I lie broken-legged, hypothermic and elated.
Night is falling and I'm stiffening here

in my alpine-rated bag and I'll call everyone

I know till my batteries run low, till the satellite
Says goodnight.