No River Poem by Alison Stine

God rewards. On the late work day,
the highway whip-flickers. Heat and
cold mixing make a wall. The valley
is bay and trees, halved by fog, low-
hung, swept water patiently waiting,
white. Forget what I said. Forget I
said it. There was no man before
no touch no pain no child no trace no
tights no dirt no flying no goal no table
no trial no inferno no choice no lobby
no process no massacre no moon
maybe there was another moon but no
machine no surprise no marigold no
candidate no classified no trilogy no
Santa Claus no still life no such thing
no notebook no refund no rainbow
no lean-to no alphabet no weather
no radio no protection no river no you
no end to you no everything begins
with you. Believe the cloud. The cloud
and the steam, the robber bees and
wasps, the honey, that long gold line
I would drink from your thigh
somewhere we could row and row to.