Of the Divine as Absence and Single Letter

If our view were not a Holiday Inn

but a fringe of trees, I could say G here

is our greenly hidden.

                                          If we lived

amid Joe-Pye weed and high grass

instead of spackle and peeling plaster

I could say perhaps

                                  I’m listening to G now

but mean the owl, a wind playing the silo,

a sticking sorrow,

                               any sound but the snore

of our latest visitor on the futon. Dear G,

please make him turn, make me kinder.

I’m not far from unfathoming it all.