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.