Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Twenty-six
Summer 2011
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THE TROUT
Glenn R. Frantz

The trout is cloudless and does as it watches. Many times they look too low to meet the
weather. They have moonlight constantly, and trout yawning for nothing else. They
think they are a vegetable oriental color; such are the milder shade.

This little boat seized by an attendant surface is not very busy delineating and framing the
trout, like an overgrown tin dress or very slow gown. The quaint ship twisted about, odd
roll, hovered wicks, and opaque away. Like the singer, they turn back -- and a small
barrel-organ in this line excites a gliding tone of New England mountain streams.

A colored paper is presented then. Rosy-looking trout have become commonplace
simply from their annual tongues. It bridges the lapidarian of crimson and distinction, an
hour on sitar say, raised to high coloring, in a rainbow of square-toed gestures to the
servants of America.

See? The sympathy between the clear sun was tunneled through them, the sun to add one
day the rocks is sometimes like a month of Midas gold, and elasticity quite courteously to
white water-lily are full of quays of illusions and neglected, and for instruction of the
trout. No trout is not real; in tenderness toward what books they could, with an armed
fear, how much worse they would have talked knowledge.

About Glenn R. Frantz

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