--poem about Nietzsche and a little poem about Whitman.
First one is called "A Supple Wreath of Burden."
"Poor Nietzsche in Turin, eating sausage his mother mails to him
from Basel.
A rented room, a small square window framing August clouds
above the mountain, brooding on the form of things.
The dangling spur of an alpine columbine.
Winter tortured trunks of ceder in the summer sun.
The warmth in the aspens trunk where
it pushed up through snow pack.
"Everywhere the wasteland grows," he wrote.
"Woe to him whose wasteland is within."
Dying of syphilis, trimming a luxuriant mustache,
in love with the operas of the Bizet."