Somnolent through landscapes and by trees nondescript, almost anonymous, they alter as they enter foreign cities—the terrible tourists with their empty eyes longing to be filled with monuments.

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Verge upon statues in the public squares remembering the promise of memorials yet never enter the entire event as dogs, abroad in any kind of weather, move perfectly within their rainy climate.

Lock themeselves into snapshots on the steps of monolithic bronze as if suspecting the subtle mourning of the photograph might later conjure in the memory all they are now incapable of feeling.

And search all heroes out: the boy who gave his life to save a town; the stolid queen; forgotten politicians minus names and the plunging war dead, permanently brave, forver and ever going down to death.

Look, you can see them nude in any cafe reading their histories from the bill of fare, creating futures from a foreign teacup. Philosophies like ferns bloom from the fable that travel is broadening at the cafe table.

Yet somehow beautiful, they stamp the plaza. Classic in their anxiety they call
all sculptured immemorial stone into their passive eyes, as rivers draw ruined columns to their placid glass.  - P.K. Page, The Permanent Tourists