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carole alto

carole alto

the name was a dream, but it stuck -

clear as glass. carole alto

and the earthquake;

white stilettos step on creamy debris.

brown ankles dipped in dark water,

wide legged balance on pieces of ten inch plaster

halfway submerging with her weight, but precariously

she moves forward as if on stilts, dark arches around and ahead -

in the halflight she thinks she is in venice. again. (does europe

follow her where she goes?)

carole alto

her saviour in a bottle

she does not swallow, she stipples, she daubs

and sadness walks in her perfumed shadow

while smelling like so many million dollars

and carole alto

she thinks,

surely this could be an ad

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