There are those who long to make friends in foreign lands —


the foreigner the better — who strain to acquire


languages, so they can say, and understand,


such things as I am hungry, cold, tired,


or Do you like opera? Sport? I know this longing.


I want a turtle to love me. Not abjectly


like an imprinted bird, out of some fawning


reflex; I await a turtle who will sway toward me,


its weight aloft, and look me in the eye;


I expect the inner turtle, secret, barbarous,


to seek my recognition, and to try —


like a staring infant on the bus,


stirred by symmetries of mouth, nose, eyes —


to see right through my Darwinian disguise.