July
       

On this adventure we carry warm champagne to the water.
The trees all bend on account of something. I look for animals

that might feed from my hand but none follow after. Sure,
there is some broken glass but even that seems necessary.

When a barn appears from nowhere or from a whole forest of trilliums,
we are silent. We tiptoe through the cataclysm of sunshine beyond the canopy

into someone else's preterperfect—probably trespassing.
But nothing here rushes to seek forgiveness. Related to this

is what we call the little spirit, which means that nothing is opaque, even
if it once seemed to be. It's just hiding somewhere

near the logging trucks found rusted and half-buried,
where we wait for the weather in the distance to come on.

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Copyright © 2021 Rachel Harkai All rights reserved
from Salt Hill
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission