in two words, the roll out. a crest and current to halve a woman. bad omens for sailors include the start of a voyage, dead bodies, a bird that corrects its flight path. the week is begging to start. you collect your shins and the early morning dark. priests are unlucky, the cast of a moon over an open bottle. you cannot stand the sound of gulls. you fill your pockets with familiars. you wear a stark green shirt and the grass comes up in clippings.
the news is good for once. the new is calling out flat water. a full steam type of heading and you arrive with all the dust behind. built of rail, a continent of industry that one tries to latch quick to. you hammer out the wrinkles and spread thin the ringing, the rig, the blown open door. and the merchants will have no shame, and the window will crow at noon, and the last flower blooms and blooms.
