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.