I was wandering again,
In the rain, March-ish, gazing at the cherry blossoms in the streetlight.
As wild as a teenager, suddenly, younger than
thirty again, barefoot, toes extend, still broken and twisted
from those years before, stepping gingerly over cracks and puddles.
I am as bashful as an apricot, unpressed
between your fingers, honey and effeminate,
to paint myself for you I would say:
silver rings, opal and turquoise, wide eyed, full hip,
it looks good on me.