Last Night's Debate

Jeff Klooger

 

Clean as a troop of soldiers ready for war
we march into the next round, a ring of shimmering light.
Your sweeping theories fool me
as always. The soft edges of your argument
brush against my unprotected skin,
a hint of things as yet unmeasured.

Memories of fur and claw
stir within me, jolt me awake
and staring like a dead man.
Tomorrow’s forecast tells of hunters
and collectors, who arrive with cages
for their precious quarry. They will not trap
what is most rare, the trembling surfaces of things,
the scent of freedom, the traces
that the swiftest prey
leave of themselves when they escape.

Conclusions come and go
and leave the soft, enfolding world
completely as it was,
alive and undiminished.