Drifting is all I know
nights like this when all
is less than more
and nothing is more
than foolishness.

No words can express
the motion of now,
the constant crossroads
and the weight
of each decision.

Before long the circling
will come to an end
and what will be the meaning
of the echoing reference
one leaves behind?

No sooner have you uttered
one starry sentiment
when a polish piano
playing Chopin
erases all poetic intent.