Directions to the Next World for Brendan Constantine


Follow the crows who’ve finished
the day shift, flying north-west.

The crows follow women in severe suits,
their chorus of stilettos. In the trees

the chirping of the smaller birds
sounds exactly like adding machines.

The women follow repentant gunmen,
who, taking parables very literally,

amputate their trigger fingers.
Follow the itch in their phantom digits

pointing toward the bodhisattva
with his back to you, by a tree,

keeper of the X-Ray mandala,
the map to the next world.

Approach slowly and press your question
against him, until your dark question

turns white as an insistent thumb
jammed upon the doorbell of heaven.