Hyacinth is two faces of unequal blush turned away from each other
hyacinth is a stone that is red orange, is a flower that is blue purple
hyacinth is a color that is either red orange or blue purple
hyacinth is a bulbous plant native to Turkey, Lebanon, and Iran
is composed of modular star flowers pinned too close together to suit a metaphor
of petalled constellations
each flower is a word permuted, petals chosen, with sense in mind—chain, chin,
hint, hitch, yacht, inch
is fashionable in the 18th century, 2000 Dutch-processed cultivars
is so numerous, dripping off wooden ships and accreting between the wax paper
lining of chocolate boxes
is a cluster of fraying floss poked through by a spike, its color is cotton
candy melted to viscous sugar strand
is a difficult flower to dry, the cone shape requires disassembling before pressing to
one plane between papers, parting the flowers like curls on a head, a tender scalp shines
through
is a man named for a flower died flowerlike
is a lover of Apollo, coveted by Zephyrus, a man (so young still, all of him a candle
pulled from wax, smooth and un-calloused, still cooling) caught in the ravage of a jealous
wind, died as a flower, the neck one of many clipped stems
a disrupted texture
unearthing cinch if you are loose with your c’s, acid if you let t’s slip to d’s, or akin, if
the c become k, tith is not a word, nor is it contained in hyacinth, but it should be both—a
harvest with something left out, a synonym for gleaning
stone facets decoupaged in sculptured tissues, petals are translucent with the
application of paste
the distinct hue of each varietal carries its own scent
devout repetition dissolving to sound
hyacinth, hi-a-sin-th is (in syllables) a greeting to a little sin caught in my teeth
is the asymmetry of the face of my beloved, freshly shaven, pieces of cotton tacked
to the clumsy places, hy-a-cinth