My Cleopatra girl, who dies and dies again, with flesh as white as pearls, who under death will always strain. And who am I, your love, clown as fool as the rest, a raven to a dove, who yet is asp upon your breast
there is no was anymore (hell there’s hardly any is). march on, beat four don’t care for three. (much less two) (but still looks ahead to one) one day you’ll forget zero day, i swear, and someday you’ll finally be in love with twoday. but first ya’ll got to start counting again— and you are am, and time still is. so move, for in motion you move to beat four and finally get a glimpse at one. one is is, and four is was— this is the start of your measure.
there is a witch in the kettles, whose house is in a subtle glen. she brews in a lakebed cauldron and picks her teeth with arrowheads.
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Solutions by The State News
