a poem from max jacob...

moon poem

there are three mushrooms on the night and they are the moon. once a month at midnight they change their position as suddenly as the cuckoo in a cuckoo clock pops out to sing. in the garden there are rare flowers, which are little men lying down, a hundred of them, reflections in a mirror. in the darkness of my bedroom there's a luminous shuttle wobbling menacingly to and fro, then another... phosphorescent blimps, reflections in a mirror. in my head there's a bee talking.

max jacob, the dice cup, atlas press