Sightsee

falling over Havasu falls
with a cosy landing
destined for the Trevi,
whilst your bags
are stuck photographing
Titicaca, with just enough
oxygen to provide glare.

because you left your snowshoes
with traipsing Inuits;
trapped between Russia
and a barren sort of American
idea that borders ignore.

you’ll end up in Seychelles
where archipelagos stammer
around Mauritius,
in hopes of finding turtles
to pretend to hide
just for the camera.

to perfect the photo album,
you’ll acquisese to Icelandic
men sweating out fjords,
in small huts perfectly placed
within reach, of an Amsterdam
that no one remembers.

then go home
to a London door to
slip on a Beijing robe
cosy up in
your Paris bed
and fall back away from
tickets and currency
to when the world
had no names.