Pretty things
in Madrid, in Paris,
in Santa Fe. 

Missing them all
for the pursuit of
now, here, present location.

I don’t see
a clear road to
Madrid, Paris, even Santa Fe

from here. Maybe I’ll see them
someday, maybe not.
I still have to learn a million things

about here, now,
where I am, before
I discover them, so while

I still keep an eye on the road,
will take a ride if it shows up,
I will recite their names —

Madrid,
Santa Fe, even Paris — let them
drift through me, salt me

as I toil here, now,
where I am, becoming
the world beyond by standing still.