‘The Swimmers’ by Edward Hirsch

We warbled on the muddy banks
and waded up to our throats in the Delaware River,

talking about Ovid washing himself in the Black Sea
and Paul Celan floating face down in the Seine.

We swam arm over arm through the green silt
and coasted along on our backs, marveling and mourning

for Shelley drowning off the shore at Viareggio
and Li Po tumbling drunkenly into the Yangtze.

These were the strokes we praised, weren’t they,
the butterfly and the crawl, the lullabies

we crooned on the first warm day of summer
in honor of the non-swimmers, Crane and Berryman,

in honor of Orpheus whose butchered head
is forever singing above the choppy waves.