The moon is in cancer. Retrograde. 
The water is always cold. The sand is glass. 
I trace the words, stouthearted, but it washes away. 

The riptide took a man today. You will find love. 
I stood there yesterday, felt the muscle and teeth of water.
I still have bite marks. 

The moon is in cancer. Your lucky numbers are 23, 32, and 7. 
June is called the honey moon because of bees and atmospheric dust. 
I was once a beekeeper. 

A bride is near the water. Venus reaches its direct station today. 
Her dress is stained and dirty at the hem, smells like fish and salt.
She doesn’t see the sharks. 

The taste of honey is on my skin. 
Sea salt, oil slicked water, and bird feathers cling to my legs. 
The salt dries in cracked lines. 

The stars are falling. 

There be monsters here, too.