Today I chose myself an eye from your nude photo
and enlarged it to the limits of the screen, to
the limits of resolution (and that's high enough
for one to believe in you). I enlarged

your right eye, wanting after the final mouse click
to jump to the other side, to examine your soul
or at least my own clicked-on self. Around
the forty-fourth enlargement

I saw my own foggy silhouette,
at the sixty-sixth the outline of the camera,
readable to me alone. But beyond that
there was nothing but grey rectangles

neatly laid like the bricks in a house, like the
stones in the wailing wall I stand in front of
day and night, doggedly swelling the cracks
with notes filled with my poems.

Translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones