Alone in Woody Creek, Colorado,I fell asleep reading “Measure for Measure,”Right at the part where the Duke deliversHis Old Testament decision of hastePaying for haste, and leisure answeringLeisure, like quitting like, and (wait for it)Measure for measure. I saw it performedOnce, in Stratford; I was maybe twenty.I only remembered the “measure stillFor measure” part, until now. It stuckWith me. But the rest of it was wiped cleanFrom my memory, all of Stratford, too.Still, the way the actor leaned on that halfLine, “measure still for measure,” as though itWere the measure of his self, measure stillFor measure, all these years, I rememberedBeing the heart of the play, its great gist;But I forgot it was a death sentence.Whether Angelo deserved such a fate,Or Isabella’s ability toRise above the mire doesn’t matter:Death, not…