A year ago friends
took me walking
on the esplanade
in Brooklyn. I’ve
no idea where it
was, I could never
find it on my own.
And as we walked,
looking out over
the water, a sweet
aroma came to us,
heavy and rich.
It was a hyacinth
garden set
on the landward side
among apartment
houses, a quite large
garden with flowers
of every size and color,
and the famous
perfume filled the air.
It surrounded me,
dazed me, as I stood
by the rail looking
down. There vaguely
among the blooms
I saw Hyacinthus,
the lovely African
boy beloved by Apollo,
lying there, dying,
the dark body already
rotting, melting
among flowers, bleeding
in Brooklyn, in
Paradise, struck down
by the quoit thrown
by the grief-stricken god,
an African boy
chosen for beauty, for love,
for death, fragrance
beside the water
on the esplanade
somewhere in Brooklyn,
in Paradise.
THE HYACINTH GARDEN IN BROOKLYN
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