TRUE (MOSTLY)



In the Pākehā Dreamtime
     Frank Petre was a giant made of cloud,
stomping around the South Island.
     Every so often
he’d stop for a shit, squatting down,
     leaving behind as a deposit
a perfect little white basilica
     in well-modulated classical orders,
cupolas sprouting like a verdigris mushrooms.

Is there such a thing as a Pākehātanga?
Two thousand copper-headed nails hammered into
a crucifix of ivory and sandalwood;
two thousand limestone tongues of acanthus lapping at the tears
of concrete Minerva and plaster Apollo.
Timaru, Oamaru, Christchurch,

     Hokitika, Invercargill…

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