lunar routines pull the tide,
wash away messages;
love letters scrawled in the sand.

tomorrow, it’s coming in high,
and washing homes away
with the bodies disembodied
by jagged rocks that waves
craves into.

the gulls are replaced
by vultures and this resort
is turning into a desert.

operation desert storm,
invade and restore
the weathered shore.

a dictator is concealing missiles
under the pier,
it has now become clear.
smear the media with warmongering
and fear.

by this time tomorrow,
there will be no more nukes,
and the moon will litter space
with fragments and dust particles.