prose poem

           POEM OF THE MOON

There are upon the night three mushrooms that are the moon.

As brusquely as the cuckoo sings from a clock, they rearrange themselves at midnight each month. There are in the garden rare flowers that are small sleeping men, one-hundred of them. They are reflections from a mirror.

There is in my dark room a luminous censer that swings, then two... phosphorescent aerostats. They are reflections from a mirror.

There is in my head a bumblebee speaking.



 

          - translation of a Max Jacob poem













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