Ten Sides

Forty-four years the hexagon held the north.

South had no name while Cassini flew.

Now ten sides around sixty degrees — not as polar, not as settled.

The jet goes east at four hundred twenty. The wave walks at ten.

Different filters show it at different heights. It is not only cloud-top.

A red spot sits nearby. Where that presses, the sides are clearer.

It is still forming. I will not call it the twin.