Henry Crawford




just what is this brain we never get to see
can you shake it [turn it upside down]
[is it a glass jar] of particles sparking out
in every direction [could it be solid] like
four brick walls [obedient] like a good
light bulb [turning on] [turning off] is it
careful [this brain] or riotous like a [movie]
with arrogant actors [rewriting] their
lines [or dignified] like a Museum of Time
a palace of high vaulted [ceilings] of
[cabinets] and [cases] of gold-leaf sheets
stacked by love by hate by anger by fear
with gale-force thoughts like a planet
so small its [years] come in [seconds]
leaving no chance to put on a winter hat
or swat the flies inside a summer house
[smoky] this brain and webbed in circles
plotting and dreaming [even as we sleep]
this [brain] that [knows no end] but calls
like a [doorbell] pulling you to the window
only to find [the mailman] gone and a single
[postcard] left in the box


Henry Crawford is a poet living and writing in the Washington, DC area. His work has appeared in several journals and online publications including Boulevard, Copper Nickel, Folio, Borderline Press and The Offbeat. He was a 2016 nominee for a Pushcart Prize for his poem “The City of Washington” appearing in District Lit. His first collection of poetry, American Software, was published in 2017 by CW Books. His website is HenryCrawfordPoetry.com.