setting your watch to a belly of a dog

springs and sprockets carried on a Crimean surf

cards with men wearing sleeves stamped with mermaids, anchors: momentos and hexes and the names of lovers stranded by the low tide

like us: dried up and bottomed out,
stamping timesheets , winking at dirty jokes 
eating dinners in silence as the hull whistles 
thru bullet holes.

counting the days since death.
4: feed the Dogs, mop the mess
22: feed the Dogs, mop the mess 
49: feed the Dogs, mop the mess 
122: feed the Dogs, mop the mess (they're coming, I promise they're coming)
247: FEED THE DOGS, MOP THE MESS, it's all you can do but try 
455: eat the dogs , mop the mess 
600:
600
Six 
Hundred 
Days
It took to realize that this was hell
and we re meant to wander the ocean floor , touring the abyss , starved to the bone 
greeting delirium and geists alike
Speaking in salted, swollen tongues
but too lost for rapturous flagellation
and too tired for the weeping and gnashing of teeth
much less dead than unborn 
unbaptized in a vast, sandspun desert
of churning waves meant to yield a victory flag
but nothing flies this far from shore 
on muted winds, stifling the secret 
That was burning hope , like iron birdshot
deep in our chests
Cooling to room temperature 
Like our cannibal comrades.
Feed the dogs, mop the mess.