March 31, 2016In the Museum of Cold Ideas

We were feeling very black and white,
very automatic. Our fingernails
were letting go, our eyelashes,
the lobes of our ears. Invisibility
drifted over us like fine gray soot.
We could almost remember the colors of snow—
shadows, wind, diamonds catching light,
colors whirling and sharp. Then softly sighing.
We felt them pressing behind our eyes,
but couldn’t quite …
What do you call them? They are—where?
In the museum of cold ideas
we went up and down stairs, looking
for the Winter Room. Found instead a bench
where we sat with silhouettes.
Is it possible to dream in black and white?
Boxes bisected air. Squares skinned the building
and rose up from a shallow rectangle,
the reflecting pool. We just sat there for a while
with the others, reflecting, surrounded
by rows of rectangles. A tracery of cold air on some,
sparkle of lost coins just beneath others. Boxes
yearned toward us in their not quite perfect rows.
This is where feelings are stored now,
in fretworks of frames all the same size.
from Ekphrastic Challenge