It is a land,
not a name.
Out of it sprang the gods,
the minor ones,
the ones that tickle babies while they sleep,
that make you forget where you put your keys,
and the ones that make you find them.
It is a weird sort of god-kind
that never requires adoration
They’re the sheep called for slaughter,
and the knife-thrust.
They never pass judgement,
though they laugh at catastrophes,
probably causing them while asleep,
(the opposite of volcanoes).
But if you believe in them they die,
unlike other, Major gods,
because they hate it when you find them.
They’re playing this hide-and-seek
so, obviously, you look for them,
like the keys.
But they’re not on the kitchen table
They’re not in the closet
nor inside you.
They're right there,
on top of the belly button,
pressing it shut
so you don't bleed to your untimely death.