One Face Left at the Window

Fantasies are tiny houses.
So enchanting! So exquisite!
Enjoyable to contemplate.

But, like a cell, a fantasy
Offers only the same paces,
Back and forth. Heel turn. Back again.

They can’t ever really begin,
Because they begin when they end,
When they’re no longer fantasies.

They’re like all the future that way,
Like heaven, like every kind of dread—
Daydreams and cells paced in the head.

The mindful claim not to mind them,
Make mansions of moments instead,
But often, when the thoughts have cleared,

The glowing white present emptied,
Awareness opened into space,
Some tiny dollhouse will appear,

Ornate, colorful, delicate
As gingerbread frosting, as lace,
All alone on the polished floor,

A miniature lock on each door,
Under the skyscape chandelier.