The blank page, 1967

Magritte speaks to me,
even when I can’t make out the words,
I hear a pebble ring down the well
of my chest cavity, I hear my own intake
of sharp air, invisible hands slam
me backwards into the brick wall,
I stare at the moon’s haze of a halo
and wonder who is howling,
is it me? Is it Magritte? What
has he released into the world?