Nicolas Spicer

By the Time You Read This

Someone will come to tidy things up. Nearly enough

to be out for a country walk in shoes that don’t bite,

composing the letter that only means exactly

what it says, or nothing. Adequate

that no-one today has thought to drag

their dog through a constitutional,

& that looking so much older seems allowed

by the scheme of the song. Nature considered,

this might get just a bit self-indulgent, but

I’ve been apologising

to snails when I step on them

& taking up too much space.

Everyone used to have the knowledge. Contrast

that handful of headaches with this well-worn smile

& a sensible conclusion will emerge

to scare people. No comparison

can distinguish the hyperbola

described by the path of a rocket

from the other wild promises & overreaching

concerns not figured. Hoarded against the day, silver

stars insist on their values & worth, doing no harm

but marked on the balance-sheet

outside & all living, or

not: I am a learning curve.

They talk too much and hunt by smell. Now

the historic present, shimmering

above this mess like a cloud of flies,

has no secure referent & comes from nothing. Since

only the rationalists can talk about magic,

only a wizard goes into insurance, & finds —

give it up for the crusher —

numbers chaotic. That’s it,

come closer, identity

parades itself naked under conditions

of upright carriage & strict arousal; I

make myself ugly for conventional wants.

This much can be made out. Conclusions

developed from no material

have been focussed on the gleaming trail

that follows a knife-blade. Open beginnings

fall into the dubious care of strangers

& fold themselves into bindweed flowers wound

in a hedgerow’s firmament

as tissue stars. Time never

passes the way that it should

& these boots are filled with plaintive subtractions who ask

whether it would be possible to be reminded

when I can say walk with me & mean it. Sincerely.

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