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.