When God used the lakes 
to brew ginger tea
and mistaking 
the stop lights for U.F.O. beams

How many times has someone asked you
to get lost with them?
Escape by means of a stream
of light in the window--
gaping mouth of a street lamp--
the tongue of the headlights--
Wander loose from this world
like the tassels of white 
altar robe chords--
braid impatient in all of our
laps-- We wait for night time
like we wait for the bell acolyte
to remind us that God is a ponderous 
creature with headlights in his
feet-- drops the tea bags in
the lake when his throat is sore
for the blaze of the stars 
crowding his head again-- 
I said to open the back door 
to let the fog inside-- mist the
windows-- take my hand before 
we turn into the milky 
bodies of ghosts-- I said
I saw a U.F.O. and you didn't 
believed me-- you said it had
to be God or the angels slipping
stones of honey
from the edge of the body of water--
tumble boil in the morning--
I stop at green lights--
stare ready to be assumed
and you tell me that GREEN means
GO and RED also means GO
if it's foggy enough out the windows--
I told you 
They're here-- they're here
for us-- for me and you-- 
the angels in flying saucers with
their headlights for eyes
and knuckles gripped around
the lamp posts like lollipops--
dangle in a white altar robe chord 
you left the back door open
like I had said-- I set out the 
bags of ginger tea on the counter
so as the steep the air--
breath in roots-- soil--
lake water pouring over the 
honey rocks-- and I opened 
the windows too
You said that it was too much--
that you couldn't see where your
body ended and where mine began--
I laughed because I had never wanted
to be so lonely in only
my own skin
God took
a deep sip to test the tea 
before he let the angels toss 
in the evergreen trees on the edge
of the water
add the boulders and over turn
the paddle boat owned by
no one but maybe the stop lights--
and the U.F.Os that hover just
above the steam from the brewing
of the ginger tea in our little forest
Close the windows
lock the back door with the latch
You said-- because you were scared 
of becoming me-- scared of 
being assumed by another stop light
scared of letting your body
fumble loose into tea leaves--
mix with the honey-- blink like
a street lamp to climb all the way
up the strings of the tea bags--
By the time I was ready to shut the house 
away again it was
already too late-- the roof
lifted and lifted until it
blurred into a cloud-- each tile
to fall again as sleet the next November
I left the door unlatched in case
we heard his tea pot whistle in
the throat of the robins still
trying to build a nest in the fog--
I used the twine of the
tea bags to climb up the side of the house--
scramble in the open top
back into my bed--
write love letters on your arms
or was it only the mist
on the window? Where ever it was
it was also patient at a stop light
where the U.F.O. contemplated
which one of us would make the
best pot of ginger tea 
from the headlights and the lake water.