Hardly of the class of rivers, claimed
on the one side by swamps or water
fringed by rushes, on the other
among the brooks or freshets to be named

that have a springtime life, Swan River
is a tiny river of an hour's row,
forever turning back the prow
like a swan's neck and forever

rounding a bend. Suddenly between
the willows and the cattails I behold
Billy dive with a splash. His body is gold,
his penis taut of age thirteen,

his eyes are lapis, his teeth are square,
he is laughing. And how to get
to kiss this river boy? His hair is wet
with the dripping moments. He emerges near.