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.