White Nights

White Nights

That the White Nights. That the comic summerly-drunk white moths spinning like naked dudes: sunny. That we. How we sort out into the future. How we don’t. What we. . . No.
   She, I said. He, she said. Two people talking about two people.
   The sedimentary plates and plateaued elevations of North Carolina seem the place for me to go. They have already reminded me of Maugham. And I have only flown over them – this 'flying state,’ as it is called and known.
   The Wright Brothers, two brothers communicating with the other brother in first sky-flights. White ink the sea-blue sky and men running with ropes and glances and hands at the textile and shy-wood frame and wings.
   These things, you know. It’s just these things.

Anatol Cordua © 2017