James Fowler

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Lacunae

Cloudlets spl tching the blue. Until they start colonizing bil boards, movi screens, bri k walls. Nob dy else ment ons them. The y doctor, face l ss ful than n rmal, decl res nothi g rong b yon mild ast gm tism. Perhaps a n urologist. Meanwhi he notices g ps in tas e, ab t the size of strawb r y eeds. So gs and TV hows grow disco tin ous. A matt of econds at f rst. Then 12:08 is follo ed y 12:14. He bac s out of the gar ge, on y to ind hi self at the ocery s ore. Bra n s ans sho his g ey mat r t rni g spongy. Whe re hock and pan s ould be, disaf ect on, ca m ne tral ty. It curs to im, hile thin s st l can o c r, hat wha pe le ca t e re l s mer f l gr e ad rn ng empt nes . His wn d si n f capil ar es n den it s s comi und n , ike a tr e str k b bl t r roo rot. t nly emai o fo sak he u ri t, j n h h m s.

James Fowler is author of a poetry collection, The Pain Trader (Golden Antelope Press, 2020), and a volume of short stories, Field Trip (Cornerpost Press, 2022).