All Saints

For that which has fallen,
Moisture-seeking crawlers
And palsied hands of leaves
Unclasp summer’s trophies.
For that which has fallen,
The moon’s a beggar’s bowl.
For that which has fallen
Come those who’ve passed over
Beyond the veil of sight
On hieroglyphic feathers
Inscrutable forever,
With light, air, and mist
Tangled gray in branches,
With ghouls that guard our doors,
With olives and horse-chestnuts
In silver dreams and armor—
For that which has fallen
Returns. And as for us,
We wish, we come to see,
To go down, tired or happy,
To that which has fallen.