Urn...

We used to have
uncommon choices.

ball pen-gel pen
rain-winter
red-blue.

My poems never battle
with her novels,
neither her present
with my past.

There, in the shrine
she meditates,
while I muse over
the clouds from the window.

Steeped in a promise,
common to my torpid palms
she croons from the Urns...
--
---
with a scud of whiffs
from the forlorned necropolis.


V@@S...