Figure 8

They are banging pipes in cellar bathrooms
and by the begrimed curve of the road,
The wasted and unversed spirits awaken--
cradling glass at kitchen stoves.

I observe them from the window,
and see the clock's tiny hand stretch itself past 7.
and their perpetuation, like a figure 8,
is a menagerie of tongues unspoken.

Daffodil eyes ripen their lackluster grins,
And they fold their skin with dry, heated breath
I am aware of the innocuous, blind waking ghost
clutching plastic bottles to the curve of his chest.

The awry faces stare from the rusted window,
And smoke rips from the doorway with a fleeting leap
a stagnant expression is hung in the aura,
and it dissipates as I hear the static on TV