In The Pit Of Red You Hid

The World's Decay Where The Wind's Hands Have Passed, And My Head, Worn Out With Love, At Rest In My Hands, And My Hands Full Of Dust.

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.

As Popa Penetrates Deeper Into His Life, With Book After Book, It Begins To Look Like A Universe Passing Through A Universe. It Is One Of The Most Exciting Things In Modern Poetry, To Watch This Journey Being Made.

The Gash In Its Throat Was Shocking, But Not Pathetic.

What Happened Casually Remains -