Freya Arde’s Cool River

Where the moon windows stop
the pearls of contained catastrophes eclipse
like borrowed phrases and stolen rhymes
that even Paul Simon could not manifest
disjointed within the heart of solace wind
Today a shimmer like taken house farms
repel the stolen parade, parted on one side
and beautified on the other, too normal
to be the debriefing of angels, maybe
you must have been my defense
in the court of petrified oil trees
An echo of God’s laundry reports
on the deck of the highlands
where no blisters shall ever reach us
and no saints battle or toss with rats
but just the preterition denied
like a praetorian gas mask salesman
hiding in the trees of the distance
between me and the self that sees it all