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. 

My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm. 

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 mean.