NATHAN BROWN
Colloquy
Nathan Brown
Colloquy
When Spinoza wrote God,
you said he meant nature.
A weak or, so less like choosing
between fossil records and Adam in the Sistine,
more like the webbed glass and that stone
lodged near its mullion,
or how, in speaking at each other,
we talk also to ourselves.
We walk through the district of warehouses
that are almost formerly warehouses,
rusting signs painted with scripture
moonlight as municipal code.
Trespass forbidden
Violators shall be persecuted
no, prosecuted. Sunbeams in the trainyard
ordain dunes of gypsum, barite, and lime
to the gold dome of the orthodox temple,
just for the hour. What do we let remain itself?
You turn up the hill for evening mass
as my spin-rod homes toward the dam,
where pitch-casts beneath the alder
identify not one spangled perch.
I tear stale bread in communion
and think, I will never read Ethics
in my pagan deference to solstice,
this cogitation of starlings;
I may already say somewhat more
than I have seen.
Nathan Brown is a poet from El Paso. He also works as a lawyer in the Bay Area.
Featured in:
Red Rock Review
Issue 56
