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Timothy Liu, “Blind Date”

Timothy Liu, “Blind Date”

Author: Poetry Editor

November 11, 2010

Today we’re pleased to feature three new poems by Timothy Liu.


He slept with his back

towards me, a ladder
I’d learn to climb

even if it took till dawn—

we who wanted to live
past the expiration

date that was printed

on the condom wrapper
neither of us had

wanted to tear open—


Offshore salt lapping up against a lighthouse flashing red,
my husband next to me in a waterbed by the sea

with “Do Not Disturb” signs hung on every door—

my lover on the other side of the ocean, unable to tell
if the fog will roll out as the day’s first headlights

make their way down a coastal road as he texts me

a face I cannot touch, a mystical rose that keeps its own
scent. What good would it do to say I miss him

when saying nothing makes me miss him all the more?


An ocean is nothing, there is no separation
between two lovers. And I knew just what

it took: six hours, two meals with a movie
in between, blinders over eyes, plugs in ears

as I tried to get some sleep. When I awoke,
I knew I’d crossed more than a time zone

for my body was always nearer to yours
than anyone else’s still sleeping in your bed—


TIMOTHY LIU‘s most recent books of poems are Polytheogamy and Bending the Mind Around the Dream’s Blown Fuse. He lives in Manhattan.

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About: Poetry Editor

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