When God is silent late at night,
and I’m watching the shadows 
the moon makes against the walls,
I wish sometimes for certainty,
to know God like the fetal pig
I dissected in high school,
its legs tied back with twine
on an aluminum tray, flesh 
obedient to the scalpel as I separated
skin from meat, meat from bone,
living silence from the silence of death.
But I lie awake and listen instead 
to the wind-rustled leaves of the poplar,
to the quiet breaths my wife makes
as she lies here sleeping, and
I pray, or think to myself,
which in these moments feels
like prayer, oh, this is enough,
this is more than enough.