Why I prefer All Souls to Halloween
The day the license expires
some revelers decide
to never give up their wigs knives beards talons glitter
On Thomas Street
Little altar.
Paper bag folded into a collared bowl.
Settled in moss and slow flowers
for children to find.
It’s November first. You’re still here,
full.
Your white paper lollipop sticks standing
like a faraway birch forest.
Maybe you’d like someone to take them
but I keep my distance
with thanks for sweetness
offered in the dark.
