ENARGEIA AND ALETHEIA



Autumnal Wellington is like
Bryan Ferry singing Avalon, when you can’t tell
if that trembling falsetto is sarcastic or sincere.

You get there in a small plane
moved by propellers, powered by internal combustion,
absurd anachronism in 2017, but so appropriate.

A waterfront village with big city
bad attitude, all wind and hills, but beautiful Japonisme
hills and the long-stemmed flowers of wind surfers

on a harbour that sparkles like
scattered shattered windshield from one cut in front
too many; for that and the museums, the art galleries

I can forgive the other parts,
the hipsters, the politicians and bureaucrats, the pretentious,
the cliques, the redoubtable solipsism of it all.

Thumbs up Wellington,
you’re OK by me.

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