I DON'T WANT TO SPOIL THE MOOD Comments

my pencil comes from a tree.

I call your name, you step
out of a gray world
and come cheerfully to me.

I cut a bird out of a book.
I paste a bird in a red sky.

I ask you:

why does a lark in the sky sing
more beautifully
than a sparrow beneath the eaves?

you say:

"better to get cracking now that measles infest the bark
and horny caterpillars strip the branches. you can't touch me
not even if a thousand trees are felled by flu."

I sing a light-hearted stanza
sharpen my beak on a sonorous stone.

I call your name
your sharp tongue curbs
this scrap of paper.

my pencil comes from a sick tree.

I sharpen the point
the point sharpens you.
a cut-out bird smells of paste.
a cut-up bird can't sing.

are you that bird?
you are that bird.

that reply sends me back to the drawing board.
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