Crop Circles: I Made ’Em
My lungs are beehives. My
nails a set of rusted cowbells.
As I walk the tramline, moon
thin as a thumbnail pairing,
I get scared. The bugs
are too loud. The dirt clods
push ornery-like at my boots.
I look mostly at the stars,
then down at my protractor.
A corn plant, up close,
is a fiendish thing. The crimped
leaves whet themselves
on my forearms.
Respect the field, I murmur,
feeling the stalks snap
under my plank. By morning
the hawks will frown
at a masterpiece.
Folks don’t trust geometry
anymore. As if fractals
don’t beat a squad
of aliens. As if a triskele
in a pasture of rapeseed
is short of a miracle.
I watch the news with crossed
arms. Think Pythagoras.
Good Lord I itch.