Left Chest Pocket

by Peter Erich

In a restful pasture 

of top heavy rosettes, 

the wind blows. 

Their weak necks flex 

and their afro bulbs bump each other. 

They buzz, 

living on frost heaved soil, 

having characteristics of weight, 

bent enzymes 

and ruffled skin. 

It is a common belief 

that the gravity 

in this field 

is not simple 

cinder block dust 

in a cuffed jean. 

The soil 

does not rest easy. 

It is anti-romatic 


and a real bastard, 

mulling over itself 

and piffed. 

So we ride 

this space potato 

for a time 

and once gone, 

we wear white shirts, 

reverse skydive, 

and hang our DNA, 

it hollow 

and melting like a wet coat.