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.
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