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……