Quarry

This is the time of year the missing ones

come back to us--no longer weighted down

by debris, curled into fetal positions,

rising naked through the murky water--

as if they can hear our yelling shouts

as we dive from the ledges above,

pretending they are not there.

Life piles onto life. "Come," says

the onyx water, "come into my deep,"

and I run across the grass into the fizzy air--

insane, undignified--but even there,

falling through the lavender haze, I extend

my arms to you, my secret comrade,

who made me love you.

--Henri Cole