Turin

Turin

Here in Turin where Nietzsche lost it, it
Being his mind, I see why. The arcades
Run on like compulsive thoughts, and even
The buildings that aren’t banks look like banks.
It must have been hard to live here and believe
God is dead. They say he saw a coachman
Whipping a horse that almost certainly
Didn’t belong to him, if a horse can
Belong to anyone, and ran — funny
To think of Nietzsche running — to embrace
The horse, who was being stubborn that day,
Refusing to budge despite the whipping,
Dreaming of the country — the country! —
Where she had run free alongside her mother,
Who she was stolen from, and brought here
To pull the overdressed rich to and from
The theatre. But so used was she to
These whippings she was aware only
Of a flickering displeasure that failed
To interfere with her memory
Of green pastures so that instead
Of the hard cobblestones of the piazza
She stood knee-deep in summer grass,
Hardly noticing the philosopher
Who wouldn't say a word the next ten years
Sobbing into her floppy shoe-like ear
That he understood her.