In that country of no snow,

on Saturdays we could hear

the blind masseurs tap their canes

down the sidewalk. At intersections,

they slowed down but did not vary

their stride.  Always they walked

in pairs, the way eyes come in pairs;

the way they worked on our backs

as we lay in a room dimmed

with curtains, waiting to feel

the joints of the spine unclench,

every hidden knot a word

raised in relief on the page.

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