volume 14 number 2
by Charles Wuest
Strangers are in my way when I want to write down the names of flowers budding near the steel arranged in rows prepared to make a center economically, my left shoe has mud inside, and I’m embarrassed here for having a notebook, although it’s blank. The pink sunset glances from dog-toys getting tossed across the street, their hues glistering leap. Sometimes a dog will confuse his toy with another’s, breaking the equipoise of the vignette with a fight. But look! This pair of handlers in wickawaymoisture athletic wear has been struck by the tender, swift twitch of strangers truly wedged into recognition, fated and maybe even indescribable. They call off their dogs and mumble nervously because of the bliss. They want to ignore the hiss of one dog’s piss. The magic of love on a person is like the magic of fire on a frosty log. Now they are them, but before now she was just bolting over the fantastic running trails and in the sweaty glances he, he was just flicking his frisbee.