Marc Swan

München

I leap

and run to a waiting express

back to Schwabing beyond the Englischer

Garten in search of the Turkish teashop –

pressed steel spoons garnished in gold plate,

samovars so tall you can almost

hide behind them, amber tea poured

on high, delightful with a dash of cream,

a tiny cube of sugar. I see a small fish

pond with gold and red koi, green plantings,

rocks of various size and weight waiting

for the drizzle from a rusty pipe

three stories up to fall

drop by drop.

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