Lord, not you
it is I who am absent.
At first 
belief was a joy I kept in secret,
stealing alone 
into sacred places:
a quick glance, and away—and back,
circling.
I have long since uttered your name
but now 
I elude your presence.
I stop
to think about you, and my mind
at once
like a minnow darts away,
darts
into the shadows, into gleams that fret
unceasing over
the river’s purling and passing.
Not for one second 
Will my self hold still, but wanders
anywhere,
everywhere it can turn. Not you.
It is I am absent.
You are the stream, the fish, the light,
the pulsing shadows,
you the unchanging presence, in whom all
moves and changes.
How can I focus my flickering, perceive
at the fountain’s heart
the sapphire I know is there?