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.
Source: Poetry (November 2012).
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This poem originally appeared in the November 2012 issue of Poetry magazine