Hallows’ Eve Fugitive

Your dreamy lightness is lost in your disguise, in the blackest I’ve ever seen your elegiac eyes.

Your figure is traced as sepulchral silk hangs
on blushing skin that November won’t see.
Kiss marks on your neck from the grass’s damp fangs,
I’d touch if I dared. A little longer, lie with me

to muse on puzzles of ethereal tenor, while suspicions rouse as the waxing moon swells.

In a casket of mist we’ll be compelled
to succumb to sublime beguiling,
defenceless against an incorruptible spell,
my implacable guilt mollifying.