I just read this poem and fell in love with it. A picture rather than a typescript because you have to see it for it to mean.

I first read it in a Keillor collection where all design was removed and it still entranced me, but now even more properly arrayed.  As set in Keillor's book, the poem is rather like pâté de foie gras, sans pâté, pas de gras.  
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Central Park West.

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