It was Alabama. It was cold,

though what I knew was that the walk

was the white you see through colored glasses

and that there was a scarf tied around a face

I half-saw moving, up and down a little

beside me, but I couldn’t see that face.

I felt bright and my clothing was bright.

The street was darker even than the sidewalk

and we went down.

Dark autos with round fenders

moved or stood; something passed us, something

dark in the air, now the color of water,

which I’ve learned is brown and dim and stings.

We were rushing without moving, or

trees and the hosue moved at a low gate

that jolted with light: I knew when we passed through it

with a hiss like “lattice” or like “latch”

and that my feet had never touched the ground.