A glorified asteroid clothed in ice
for Ptolemy’s celestial minuet
spins to sphere-music.
Harmony shatters, ellipses split.
Orbits collapse. At his apogee,
he breaks free from the system
that no longer accords him
the title of planet.

He turns and turns away, a less-than-world,
expelled from the planetary plutocracy,
too poor in light, too rich in minerals.
What does it matter if he’s solid rubies
too far out to sparkle?
With his cold grip, the dark lord
shatters ice to spinning splinters.

Necromancers, revise your spells.
Astrologers, rewrite your horoscopes.
Weird women, witches of the wide spaces,
ululate, for underworld’s lord,
tumbled in shame, no longer merits
the name of planet.