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.

Perpetual twilight.

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.

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