Precision in the translation of sight,
which is really precision of the abstract,
which is, of course, nothing at all,
and the only thing we’ve been given.

Different, though, from the corporeal,
which has its own dialect, ancient,
and does not lend itself to even the flimsiest
and most inaccurate of translations

But to say, plainly, that her eyes -
their blueness veined with silver
- are lapidary - therefore redolent
of elegant, veined stone
(if we allow redolent to breathe
free of scent a moment)
- is a brief triumph, of the small,
fleeting kind, which is the only kind.

Though he still says nothing
of the pleasure in seeing them
candent with white summer light,
of the tactile tongues which elude him.

Therefore, he goes back to work.