The eyebrows are
someone’s underarms.
Lips are from an ad for
canned something.
Eyes are joints of page-ends and
an accident report.
A little bit of glint
from a spot on drug addiction.

No, cleavages are no pumpkins
from a page on gardening
I got them from a photo feature
on rough seas and storms.
Hands are a machine
just released in the market.
The clothes, you will never guess,
are a centrespread of a
funeral from a foreign magazine . . .

But the anguish
which you say
has come through
so well
is all my own.