RENE MAGRITTE'S TIME
(1898-1967)

A primal cluster
of colors as three
oranges in the night
fall half-knowingly
on our consciousness
over the trees lawn
with a transparent tongue
absorbing meteors
of words and shapes
where a child's notion
in rustled myths
now absorb
by a muse's voice
that even a vase
may become a sculpture
or sepulchre
at the same moment
as the October hill leaves
will offer up its clay.