June First

The way of change has two curves,
One churns next and one turns back,

The curve that counts plows and clocks,
The too far-off that gets lost.

There are cults and gods for both.
Most of the farm gods turn back

And loop past on rungs of stars
And crops, all in the same ring

That won’t end (or the world ends),
While the sea cults and death gods

Carve through storms and waves that heave
Up out of tossed heaps, mounts

That burst in flames, hurl stones, ash,
And bolts from the blue, who knows

When or why, but just this once,
And then on to the next rage.

A month, a moon, is the soul
Of that way you can count on

To turn by the whole route back,
But each moon month has a first,

Which means what was to the left
Is null and what the hell comes next.