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.

water has long evaporated, but its death-masks linger.

the title page is illegible; looks like a map of Earth

before the continental shift.

here lies Ferlinghetti, raw and unrepentant,

the human being as poet,–– well,

this fragment of what’s left of him.

sure, a new copy might be in order.

they say the words will be the same.

it's shiny and respectable.

they tell me nothing's changed of its substance.

but a glossy new one lacking the personal history

of being in the same room at the same time

through a half century and countless goldfish,

women and parakeets? I say no thanks.–– and besides,

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