Southern skies have darkened in disgust
at how easily we see through them. Their pout
screws serotinal winds into a confused wad.
Angry charges flash from the black wad
warning some aftermath of such disgust
as if to force melancholy to follow pout.
Whatever excuse is given for this pout,
it will pass. Whatever day gets tightly wad
into a waste now, it will fly far from disgust.
No wad, no lasting pout, no sign of disgust.