Quarry is house that’s gone
and says follow. Quarry’s
a basement made of swaying
buttresses, depth that lifts
to an algae of clouds.
Sky strikes home on the quarry’s
roof, like a warm green floor.
In a painting of quarry,
fishermen appear
in rain, their galoshes
ringing with buckles,
their slickers
chips of childish yellow.
In the painting,
start with the rain that has struck
already; work upward.
Keep everything captured
in a frame of stone shore.
Last, the protective cloud
where the fishermen stand
reflection-deep in their sky,
posing for catch and not thinking
of fish. The sky includes
grass and rain and the ponchos
and algae like cloud
tangled in tackle.
Then it joins the heaven, the roof
on the quarry’s big-colored room
of water.