The clarity of my thought consists
in measured, bent degrees and arcs
by jury, rigged. By judgment, fixed
- because the court hath all such art.
Or was it heart, to fix such things?
Withal, we all come gathering
to parse and tease between each slice,
and so adjust the scales precise.
Just so, adjust the niceties. So
mean, we mean it all. So nice
we've found a sense
by such degrees
that fleas and lice
could slot between
and drink our life's blood dry,
and clean as ice.
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