Fold out evenings, chairs in the street.

‘See Iridium?’ Making out the satellite pantheon:

efficient gods that do return our prayers

(small voices cast across our desert spaces)

                                    like stars —

                                    like Clint Eastwood

                                    riding impassive

                                    through our networks of desire.

Don’t be afraid. The air is full of frequencies:

a stranger, dying to confide

in the ideal democracy of aerials

its instruments and visions.

                                    In intelligence consortiums

                                    pale caffeinated priests

                                    watch over them and they

                                    watch over us.