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As the wide river I walk along runs silent through evening forest, time passes as time wends when its cyclical limit has nowhere to turn but around and around, like water chasing its current, with my own moments caught now, by undertow, before the climb of this windless, broken rock passage I peer up into . . . The floating shade, and fragments of dusty matter are hung in static above an earth split and overturned, the revolving world of these divided seconds like the caesura this morning between the dark outside a gas mart, then the fluorescent lighting inside, the upclimb of the mother sliding coins across the counter for a package of powdered doughnuts, the small line growing behind her.
Alex Missall studied creative writing at the University of Cincinnati. His work has appeared in Unleash Press, Hole in the Head Review, and Willows Wept Review, as well as other publications. He resides in Ohio, where he enjoys the trails with his Husky, Betts.