Poem of the moon

Night has upon it three mushrooms which are the moon. As brusquely as a cuckoo sings in a clock, they arrange themselves at midnight differently each month. In the garden there are rare flowers that are little men tucked in, a hundred, the reflections of a mirror. In my dark room there is a luminous shuttle that roams, then two... some phosphorescent aerostats, the reflections of a mirror. There’s a bee in my head that talks.

Max Jacob