Lawrence in paradise

with age and usage,

The Secret Meaning of Things

is nearly torn asunder–– mold dots

its pages like the face of a freckled kid.

the water has long evaporated,––

the title page is illegible, looks like

a map before the continental shift, smells fishy–– like

something gone sour, or the first

recognition of a stoolie before the heist.

here lies Ferlinghetti, raw and unrepentant––

the human being as poet,–– well,

this fragment of what’s left of him.

there’s a riven, yet warm romance going on here––

an old paperback penciled-in as D’Elia ’73

as if D’Elia had anything to do with it in ’73.

a new copy might be in order replacing what already exists.

they say the words are the same.

they tell me nothing's changed. but, shit––

a glossy new one lacking the tactile history of pliability?

besides, there’s a genuinely warm romance going on in here.