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--poem about Nietzsche and
a little poem about Whitman.

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First one is called "A
Supple Wreath of Burden."

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"Poor Nietzsche in Turin, eating
sausage his mother mails to him

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from Basel.

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A rented room, a small square
window framing August clouds

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above the mountain, brooding
on the form of things.

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The dangling spur of
an alpine columbine.

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Winter tortured trunks of
ceder in the summer sun.

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The warmth in the
aspens trunk where

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it pushed up through snow pack.

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"Everywhere the wasteland
grows," he wrote.

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"Woe to him whose
wasteland is within."

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Dying of syphilis, trimming
a luxuriant mustache,

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in love with the
operas of the Bizet."

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