[Or, The number of ways n hats can be put in n boxes so that no hat is in the right box.]
Lentil and seashell.
The lemon tongues of mortar.
Slice the morning.
The summer and pimiento.
Dissolve the daytime in a cupful of turquoise.
The lobster and sapphires.
The introduction of rosewater and ice.
Pick the minds of currants.
Fill the yolks of olives.
Remove the oven.
Chop the tins.
Singe the platter.
Catching the extremities of oranges.
The outsides of tomatoes and riverbanks.
Knead the fog. Strain the seas.
Turn the fragments. Juice the driftwood.
Halve the world. Scrape the center.
Cook the cases. Line the essence. Skim the result.
Cover the seeds.
Beat the wings round.
Soak the trees. Roll the sun.
Sprinkle moonlight, and peanuts.
A Suspension of Dots
The austere windows with white dots,
as transparent as opportunity sculptured.
What is the action of their slate petals?
Magnetized, hardened into a suspension scent?
That I was a suspension of dots, and
there is the fat title.
I see many sometimes, often. All safe at once.
This favorite yearning is for the morning’s use only.
The mouth of the morning that I happen to inhabit.
A minute in which designs form, surpassing opaque.
Though later neglected for TV,
the famous Frank Lloyd Wright-designed house built over a cafeteria
was a wonderful retreat for those who dwell in elastic.
Glenn R. Frantz lives in southeastern Pennsylvania. His poetry has appeared in publications such as Otoliths, ditch, Sawbuck, Stride, Great Works, and Blue & Yellow Dog.