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,
eveywhere it can turn.  Not you,
it is I am absent.
You are the stream,  the fish, the light,
the pulsing shadow,
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?

  - Denise Levertov   feeling fraudulent