Sphere Was His Middle Name ( for him, the high priest)

Sphere Was His Middle Name

(for him, the high priest)

Orbiting out past fingertips,

a thumb-screwed flatted fifth

added to the scale of your name.

No bigger than Bigger

No whiter than Christmas

This cutting was no game.

Bamboo shoots from the bladed grass

beneath Nica's snow.

Bright right angles

of Bud's glass enclosure

Hope came to visit that day.

"You hear that?"

88 keys on the nuthouse wall.

And not a single lock

unlocked.

That midnight is an axis

from the dark tower

traveling light

under the bridge.

'Twas meant by what's round?

Ask him now.





By Justin Desmangles

this poem originally appeared in Drumvoices, Fall 2008, Volume 16