carole alto
the name was a dream but it stuck
clear as glass carole alto
and the earthquake
creamy stilettos step on the light debris
brown ankles dipped in opaque waters
wide legged balance on pieces of ten inch plaster
halfway submerged 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
europe follows her where she goes
carole alto
her saviour in a bottle
she does not swallow she stipples she daubs
she smells like a million dollars
strength walks in her perfumed shadow
and carole alto
she thinks all the while
surely this could be an ad
seasofme060915parallaxis
YOU ARE READING
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Poetrymy personal favourites in one book. these all come from older collections. hardly any of the media belong to me
