11.21.2004

2




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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