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Ondaatje: The Piano Player

all these notes and keys
hit them right and hard
notes and keys that sing
music that's unending

milks poured on brown skin
and I love him for it
that image, that sense
of completeness and injustice

radiator won't turn off
miles and miles of highway,
yellow and white lines run
though visions like hazy streamers

sweating, no money, must sleep
skin's sticky and flaccid, bed's dented
others have lied here, hitting keys
hard and right to make them sing

there's that field that's like cold
milk poured over my skin
gray rocks of Canada meeting rolling
acres of the world's daisies and tufts
of dandelion heads, her curves cool
and a smirk that rolls and rolls
horizons licked by rich creamy evening skies
motions and notes that will never die

here's the heat, droplets that parade
through hairy legs and you've fallen
asleep and the heat and this hate
this distant loneliness and this ridiculous
field and your body, all these keys and notes
and not a song to sing and a drop of milk to curdle
and rot
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