Enter the ascension feed, modern mystical poetry that branches out weekly as reality bends and the muse goes galactic—original poems and translations you can feel, sing, and return to, no footnotes required.
Arabs, they call them,
some macabre African-American tradition,
horses and black carriages
traveling from Mon Roe to Pigtown,
guys with stovepipes hats
selling flowers from the back like My Fair Lady...
Arabs, they call them.
