Numbers, there on the screen, were the self-same:
the date of my birth expressed as a sum,
the rate of my heart while perfectly calm,
my height in feet, my weight to the nearest stone,
the teeth in my head, the women I've known.

Stark-bollock-naked except for a hat,
sunk to the waist in a slag-heap of cash,
I'm rolling a joint with a fifty-pound note
to blow nought after nought in rings of smoke.

The artists breaks off from his easel for a piss.
A mirror on the wall, face on, gives back
me in the pink, in paint, and me in flesh.

It's hard to tell the fraction from the whole,
I think: which makes up which, what gives, if that divides
by this, or this by that, or that by this.