Down at the church the flower girl sits. Legs innocent, 
apart. 
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart. 
Painted sister stopped beside. A word upon her saintly 
lip. 
Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip. 
I don't know where she might go when she runs home at 
night. 
It's for the best: I wouldn't rest when I turned out 
the light. 
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream 
just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine. 

I have touched that face a dozen times before. And I 
have let my pencil run. 
Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and 
foreign sun. 
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm. 

I close the door. She is no more until the next 
appointed hour. 
Northeastern light push back the night: painted 
promises in store. 
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream 
just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine. 

Down at the church my flower girl sits. Legs innocent, 
apart. 
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart. 
My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her 
arm. 
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm. 
I mean no harm. I meanÂ…Â…