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The Blind Masseur

No matter
His hands are tired,
Days long, dreams deferred.
He must be ready
When they arrive
From places they cannot bear,
Drawn to his sensuous beacon,
His ever perfect touch.

One week into the next
He both knows and damns
His gift.
His life jerks with their movements,
Their inner clocks. Appointments.
How they come again and again
How he must hear
Their voices rail
With private thunder.
He listens, no choice,
His head bursting,
Fingers extolling, rewarding,
Pressing bodies back to earth.

He is patient.
In the next world,
He will have no need
To touch them
Or the ravaged litanies
Floating in their wake.

In the life to come,
He will no longer wonder
What becomes of those,
The mutes, he calls them,
Who arrive to be touched
Only once, then move away
So soundlessly
From him, without a word
About his touch
Or their fragile itinerary.
Then, perhaps,
He will understand
How they press on so quietly
Into a darkness
That now,
He cannot even imagine.

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