Speak to me with the hands of Grace and God
Hold me to your bosom as the love overflows me
Bucketfuls of God. Liquefied and pure sparkling.
We douse the street corners in diety libation. Splash droplets on the street signs and door knobs like lambs’ blood.
Mix it into the puddles the children play in after rainfall;
Run up on parents and pedestrians and commuters and taxi cab
drivers, garbage men and nurses and waiters.
Gurgle some of it in our mouths along with our tooth brushes.
We’ll trickle it onto the faces of elders while they sleep, and give some to the milkman alongside his glass bottles
Bucketfuls of God.
Armies of enlighteners.  Determined men, women, and children

each parceled out a portion of the precious     toting it like treasure.
Wine drunk and besotted with the impulse to share.
Putting liquid God onto our foreheads; washing our hair
with it; the scalp all tingly with revelations and epiphanies. We’ll spread Happiness like a vast liquid plague, the buckets seemingly unending.

But when at last the supply begins to thin;
when the last buckets’ contents have been stretched, and diluted, and cross-pollinated and disbursed;
When the final Disciple of Happiness empties the remaining contents of his God-filled canteen down his throat with a burp and a sigh…
Then we will look to see what miracles befall us.
For when men have no more gods they will themselves become godly,
Calling upon whatever reserves remain to them.

Residuals of a time when they had  no need of outside divinity.