She leans against the door, holds
her left hand at the elbow
with her right, looks at the bed
on my sheets — oranges
peeled half peeled
bright as hidden coins against the pillow
she walks slow to the window
lifts the sackcloth
and jams it horizontal on a nail
so the bent oblong of sun
hoists itself across the room
framing the bed the white flesh
of my arm
she is crossing the sun
sits on her leg here
sweeping off the peels
traces the thin bones on me
turns toppling slow back to the pillow
Bonney Bonney
I am very s till
I take in all the angles of the room
— Michael Ondaatje. The Collected Works of Billy the Kid. 1970.
