Tired Of Gods

I'm tired of gods
who come down from above
and blind us with their fire.
I'm waiting for a god born
from the belly of an earthworm,
with, instead of wings,
fungi cilia flying
underground through hummus,
alchemizing the detritus
of moldering bodies 
to live again
and rise into green nipples
for the suckle of hummingbirds 
and butterflies.
That too would be a Christ,
a Son, loam-born 
of a single Mother.
And the Father?
He would stand Wordless,
barefoot in the mud,
leaning on his ancestral hoe.
Painting: 'Man With A Hoe,' Francois Millet, 1863

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