Sponged Out

The trees are cadaverous in the early morning,
sponged out of the vibrant composition
until the emergence of a bright nerve of colour —
not the sweeping trails of deep pink bougainvillea
climbing the walls of apartment blocks, nor the violent
blue of jacaranda near the gardens of Mon Repos —
but the vivid memory of when she danced under the cupola
with its glass dome shivering splinters of light
across the floor
picking out colours in the gypsy skirt
she’d worn to impress him when infatuated

She must take care her imaginary conversations
don’t escape
when he’s around

so she goes to where the cypress trees are black
and stripe the landscape like brush strokes on a heavy
dark and disturbing oil painting devoid of colour
where her bitter orgasm empties icicles
onto the brittle needles
and she is sponged out of all vibrant compositions
she has become as cadaverous as the trees