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Aliens There is no way to tell by looking. We are always fooled by their fat-old-man disguises, their frumpy clothes. We’re blind to long eyes, hidden under sunglasses, the inky hole beneath a specious nose. Our friends resemble us, confused, well-meaning. We like their ways, so like our own. They enter our lives, move into our newspapers, onto our breakfast tables served with the hominy, make themselves at home, even as they draw away. Satisfied, we never gripe when they’re lost for hours, tell small lies. We don’t care to notice the hubbub under backyard tarps. Or how the craft takes shape inside its metal skin. Our amigos still seem known and plausible, if reluctant to confide. Only when they spike away, vanish into hyperspace, are we convinced we didn’t know them well. Although we say it was impossible to tell.