translated from the Hebrew by W.N.Herbert

The tree in the window is trying to sell apples --
I know this poison, morning --
now it raps hard on the pane
as if it’s being chased, begging for shelter.

Autumn and rust creep forward silently
in auburn and red flakes,
acknowledging gold, avoiding stone;
refusing to remember, peeling the gaze down
to what a shadow holds.

And always the birds come
with their grey, minimal wings
like medals won in a contest for restraint
with their thin beaks that channel hunger
harshly, into a single burning line.