We were walking through the cemetery.
It was about this time of year, as I recall –
when the earth itself seems only a graveyard.
We heard a far-off sound (pattering rain,
puttering pigeons, mute piano notes?).
We saw, over the river, the silhouette of a figure
throwing dead branches on a tall bonfire.
And in those days, it seemed, everyone wore masks –
except for you and me. And now I see only masks.
Halloween never ends, it seems –
unless you come back again, unless we retrace
our steps over the grassblown graves.