Red Clay Weather

As If from the Dead

—6 As If from the Dead One foggy day a photograph walks down the road, trying to hitch a ride downtown, where nothing’s open Sundays anyway. I lost it years ago, water-damaged, fading on a forgetful windowsill, or washed out with a pair of old jeans, a worn-out pair of sneakers to balance the load. Or passed it by like men shouting from the Bible in slow motion on summer sidewalks, where it’s too hot to walk, or just standing there in arms-raised white-shirt ties. Rolled-up windows block the sound, car stereo drowns it out while other voices swim cool waves of air-conditioned sound filling the car, rising till there’s no place to breathe: it’s hard to listen underwater, easier to hear what’s barely said. A gesture language of damnation’s blurred by turning wheels and axles and the sheen of speed, as if everything’s been hosed down and buffed to a reflective shine. Memory looks into the light that hasn’t changed yet, pulls the visor down to cut the glare (that fog burned off hours ago, but left this haze). Song stops a minute, makes a small suggestion: Let us think only of the instant. And then it’s gone, the traffic starts again. An empty car is halfway home. shepherd text-2.indd 6 11/22/10 2:07 PM ...