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…………….
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