champagne—good morning—
celebrating the art
of putting words on tongues
and speaking blackberries,
raw crescents, the doves
in the trees and the hair;
their feathers, the formulists,
foucault and the prisons,
men going free,
the eye going mad.
we could be anything—
we could be silver bubbles
coming up fast,
exploding in today— today— today.
the last pavilion 