The moon rises over the harbour
The wind grows heavy with salt.
Mars is a pebble thrown at the sky,
Rusty as the dreams we forgot.
Slow decline down here by the water
Watching the tides ebb and swell,
Blood on our lips from biting our tongues
While being told we’re living well
(Tell it to rosebuds cracking open,
Birthing petals out of pain,
And weaving jesus crowns from the thorns—
Our messiahs are salt and rain).
Crack open that goddamn tequila—
It’s the last bottle we got.
Look, the pale lemon moon is rising
And the wind will kiss it with salt.