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.