Days and Nights

The old yellow lights
go spotty and make us edgy--
we don't want to sit in the dark.
We break the morning bread into parts
and wrap them in newspaper and serve them from
the roof of our car next to the highway, gloomily.
By night, we are stumbling
into the pudding field--that's
what we called it. Shoes dipped
in sludge, there is some distinct notion
of the whirling of days, and other
abutments which cause delays.
My modes are lush and pelvic
but not at all what you'd see
in a movie or on the street.
The morning flickers, perhaps
the filament is a disaster waiting
to shape our reading. I'm not sure,
but we are soaking in it, approximately
all day, flickering or not.