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Anne Pollok

The Bishop’s Hands

Rivers of strife pour through his veins. White age furls rapidly, time’s rapids reach As fingers. Time does not have...

Bathsheba

I see her bathing, her hills and valleys Are ripe for conquest, Bathsheba thrills me. Her dull sweet husband with...

The Garden Gate

Welcome, my friend, please enter through my gate! For sun is off sleeping, and night is fine. Your road may...