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Down at the church the flower girl sits. legs innocent, apart. |
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I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart. |
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Painted sister stopped beside. a word upon her saintly lip. |
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Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip. |
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I don't know where she might go when she runs home at night. |
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It's for the best: I wouldn't rest when I turned out the light. |
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No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream---- |
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Just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine. |
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I have touched that face a dozen times before. and I have let my pencil run. |
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Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and foreign sun. |
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My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm. |
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Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm. |
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I close the door. she is no more until the next appointed hour. |
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Northeastern light push back the night: painted promises in store. |
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No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream---- |
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Just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine. |
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Down at the church my flower girl sits. legs innocent, apart. |
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I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart. |
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My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm. |
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Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm. |
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I mean no harm. I mean |
