In autumn, the sprig of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob
carefully inspects every kind of bush.
But G-d looks out not from all of them, nor at everyone;
instead, there are sounds: rustle, crackle, crunch.
Antler in alder or bruin in bramble?
Swishing sleigh-runner, strident squirrel, croaking crow?
Or is some little thing, scarlet, grey, small but long-backed
whispering into a phallic microphone?
Autumn. Signification sheds its leaves, and the country park
grows bare. At the fork, my soul goes different ways:
son of Abraham right, son of Isaac back,
son of Jacob left, and I go straight.