His whitened eyes arc and slide, as if sketching
my voice on a cave wall, this massage hall
in Cambodia, where all the therapists are blind.

He repeats my name, his voice a flashlight
in my eyes. Then he guides me by the arm
to his table, where I undress, lie face down,

close my eyes, and join his curtained world.
I watch his hands untie my shadow
and see it rise, a ripe moon that covers the sun.