On a sleepless, steamy, summer night,
I sit at my desk

inflating logical arguments
for the existance of
God:

Ontological, existential, sina qua non
et cetra,

blowing them up,
lite skinned,
faith-filled balloons
floating around me.

Then
I pull a pin from my mind
and refute them.

A quick prick
is all it takes to leave them lying on the carpet,
a rainbow of used condoms,
all seminal fluid gone.

All proofs,

but one,

Nancy, my sleeping spouse.

I slip into bed,
cuddle her.
Spooning puts my nose in her hair.
I sniff her soft perfume,
Youth Dew her benediction.
My lips on her neck,
I kiss her.
Her taste,
sweet wine from
Bachcus’ secret cellar.

Her existence can be
no
accident,

rather a plan
by the grand Mind.

Even the alleged
flaw of finitude
is no deflation of her miracle.

A diamond doesn’t die.

She is all the provenance
my faith requires.

I come to the bed
an atheist

but sleep
the deep sleep of

belief.