The grass turns pink here
The subtle blush of a very modest land.
But this is no girl
Knees together, arms close at her sides.

She invents her own colors,
Lavendar-orange, turquoise-brown,
And paints her bare body
Red-gold as Burmese temple roofs
Silver-pink as spawning salmon.

She opens her smile
And turns to you,

You, gulping your callow breath,

And with such a gaze,
Meets your eyes
And meets your eyes
And meets
Your eyes
Until it is you
Who must break
And look away first.