stayed at the Hotel Turin and rode on a streetcar
Nietzsche in Eighty-Nine
haplessly sinking
pacing Turin
in and out of the lucid district
his kissing of the horse
her skipping to the park the concrete
traces of Friedrich’s swerving shoeprints
does she know him
does it matter
for presumption
of her passing the man
isn’t that enough
and anyway as he said
there are no eternal facts
(From Otis Review: History and Fiction 2003-4)