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.