The field

11.7.13

Glaze gold of six city
buildings against solid blue clouds
at sunset, the whole thing looking as though you
could peel it back, and behind it find
of course
something less dazzling . . .

but you always have to pick the scab.
There are excuses, yes,
the one time you found just puckered skin beneath
as if it had been waiting for you all along,
fresh as forgiveness,
the exception that proved the rule.
Your heart pounding with something
that wasn't quite relief
or disappointment, you tripped
into the kitchen to pluck a glossy orange off the counter,
started the peel with your teeth,
and that bitter pith 
was its own kind of vengeance.

To this day, you quiver with the certainty of it.
Over the next cliff
the parachute will deploy.

And you'll touch your feet down
in the dewy field for which
you were always meant.