Crop circles are hoaxes, like
Flying saucers are swamp gas or
Mistaken sightings of Venus. Like
Ghosts are squatters, déjà vu
A miscue of the brain. Like
God is an evolutionary strategy,
Coded into our genes,
Wired into our culture, His
Angels delusions, believers delusional. No
Close encounters of any kind.
Milk behind the door does not
Make fairies do our mending.
Yet here we are with our toes in it,
Being taken up in beams.
“I have been here before,” you think,
“The Kingdom of Heaven, right at
The end of my fingers.” You know
Electricity is real when you are plugged in, so
I will leave the milk here, just to be safe.
Kelly Coyle is an academic refugee, stay-at-home dad, improvisational guitarist, folk instrumentalist, a rather poor banjo player, former coffeehouse owner, husband. As a child in Kentucky, he read Giants in the Earth and decided he wanted to live in Minnesota, so he does. He writes essays (and poetry now and then), composes music, performs a few times a year, adjuncts at colleges. Cooks. Enneagram type 9, INFP, Sagittarius, ADD probably. Quakerzenmethodist, more-or-less.