Nights like this

Stiles stops being obtuse to become beautiful. Some midnight spell transforms the courtyard into the castle I and the architect always imagined. The air anticipates summer, and the steetlamps have found exactly the right pose. It's enough to make you want to be a lyric poet or just a trashy novelist. On the parapet below my window, the moon diffuses through magnolia blossoms. But from the way light suffuses clouds, the rings could never connote anything more than the most gentle longing, even in an Alice Hoffman. I haven't forgotten March, but maybe Nietzsche says I should. What could he know cooped up at the end of his life in damp auberges in Italy, sleepless, suffering from stomach problems and syphilis. Zarathustra is waiting to preach parody to me, but for a moment it is enough to stand in myself, at the window, and admire the milky tree.