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Two Mornings
Roger Craik

​Shivering, he knows himself alive.
 
In the muttering gooseflesh dawn,
he senses, once more, the gradual
strengthening of light as it defines
the lineaments of evil’s rootless hinterland.
 
In his bones . . . in his bones . . .
 
How far, how like a dream,
those avenues of cherry trees
in the municipal park in bloom, the hum
of bees haphazarding, the statuary
weathering in stern beneficence,
and then the tramways grooved along the veins
of an enlightened city, twilight
with the gas lamps coming on,
the shop displays, the chocolatiers . . .
 
He thought of himself as Viennese,
as Viennese.
 
A mockery of crows.
 
(O how his mother played the piano
while his father played the violin!)
 
They will come for him soon.
 
II
 
A sun-warmed old man’s veinous hand,
gold ring on the little finger.
(Small lizards bask and dart.)
A sheet of yellow paper thinly lined
with blue, a Waterman calligraphic pen . . .
 
tiny green words in a young hand forming.

Roger Craik was born in Leicester, UK, and has worked in universities in England, Turkey, Bulgaria, and Romania, as well as at Kent State University, Ohio, at which he is Professor Emeritus. He enjoys watching the birds every day.

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