by Adrian Dallas Frandle Pelly Benassi There were so many omens. First, there was the circle of ravens hovering over the roof of my morning coffee. Then, on the way to the bank, two hawks separately riding the gyres. A blue truck bannering, “Jesus the living Bread.” Red shoes on an old man. Three atms, all broken. Amongst the signs, I waded through La Mer by Debussy, awash in a painted memory of the sea. Awoke to a dream of driving through fog. Later on, the bat weaved a suns

by Adrian Dallas Frandle Philipp Pilz Nothing converts one to an augur faster than an abdominal ultrasound on Valentine’s Day. Anointed into the priesthood of interpretation with one swipe of warm gel to the belly. Or, perhaps it was the juvenile eagle one would be tracking on one’s drive home from the appointment. Maybe one would watch it circling, and slow down the car to try and snap a picture (the danger meager — the situation benign — there are few other cars). One would