a shifting shape of love in bloom.
 It is the spark of tragedy in a piano tune,
 And Chopin, I imagine poor Chopin,
 In the desert of her mind,
 sinking in the sands of a sonata
 He loved quite deeply.
 My laughter, well-dressed and good-looking,
demanding flames and flowers from you.
 And now, as I sit here in my moonlit room,
 After the drinks and singing are through,
 And the bar has closed, the

 Shreds of voices and cigarette smoke are
far from me and I think of you.