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.  

   Paul Goodman.