Meat of Memories

This is the meat of memories, the cloth of stories told: the heisted fence, the scuttled gate, an entry forced, by license of impressionistic poets flashed and answered by the night. The sunken grounding, the moon burnt page, and breath of Brooklyn stalking down the lights on cemetery hill. Far dim the stars to near Manhattan celestial majesty obscured by our contrivance. I the canvass, these the paints. I the marker, on the mausoleum undertaking to preserve of thawing memories the meat.