The poem
It is so peaceful on the ceiling! It is the Place de la Concorde. The little crystal chandelier is off, the fountain is in the dark. Not a soul is in the park.
Below, where the wallpaper is peeling, the Jardin des Plantes has locked its gates. Those photographs are animals. The mighty flowers and foliage rustle; under the leaves the insects tunnel.
We must go under the wallpaper to meet the insect-gladiator, to battle with a net and trident, and leave the fountain and the square But oh, that we could sleep up there....
She maps the centre of Paris at night onto her bedroom ceiling and turns it into an image of absurd and perfect peace. A bit of a prosodic stumble in the middle, I think, but the end is wonderful, wistful, slightly tongue-in-cheek.