I sit on one side of a beaten brass tray,
 he on the other. With delicacy he
  pours tea in tiny cups, an emerald

flashing his pinky finger, a diamond
 stud in his ear. We discuss heady
  scents he uncorks for me alone.

Steam rises from mint tea served in
 tiny cups, and heat surges from un-
  spoken chasms of deep diversity. Late-
   blooming flowers spice air warmed by

eye-strokes and words laced with innuendo.
 We share a thousand and one dreams, the
  canting floors of the ancient shop not unlike
   the deck of a ship carrying us no where.

 
`