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In a Dream he is Still Busy

Finding him, in an unfamiliar room,
she sees he is with someone,
is asked to wait and waiting falls
on her like rain, a fine mist, a softness
she finds words for, haar, smirr,
silly poetry words—till it falls harder,
faster, relentless now, streaming over
her chilled face till she can no longer see him,
he is blurred, rubbed away,
and none of those soft damp words will do
for the drowned, scoured, washed-out
loneliness of waking.

Maura Dooley

Poetry London

Summer 2012

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