new zealand electronic poetry centre

D A V I D   G R E G O R Y


The Final Europe


It is stuffed with things
dead before the birth of memory;
a soil of people in fine gardens,
the sky stolen from a gallery
during one of   the wars
they had like bad weather
and the holy days of blood.
And some came home
with all their arms, but dreams
broken in both eyes.
All holidays must end
or they would cease to be.
Like that lake that is only now
the shock of diving
and a spool of undeveloped film.
And this plane on trajectory
to this unexplored innocence,
finding that hands have touched
all the secret places.

Free to a Good Home

They failed to have
the language neutered.
Now this litter of words
will die, unless you take them in.

Last updated 23 April, 2006