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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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