There are the unexplainable
The Roswells, where alien life forms
Slither past as ghosts and scrap yards
In the middle of a desiccated dessert
Are filled with phantom lights

And the human body is like Roswell.
We have little deaths that make us rise.
Little hangovers that make us fall.
We have one feeling surpassing infinity
And one act that ends in an exclamation mark.

And those intangibilities are our own aliens
The cone heads and the popping eyes
And all we ask from our aliens is to give us
Fluorescent moments, ET episodes when
Something inside us glows for no reason
And those insensibilities become mainstays
Inside the labyrinths of the heart.

And we look at a small creature
With a glowing fingertip inside us,
As we tell ourselves – we are only as alien
And our hearts let us.