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After two decades in captivity, the loggerhead turtle
wandered the coastal waters: Robben Island, Namibia, Angola.

A tracker on her leg, no scientist could grasp her intentions.
Home-bound, she must have been looking for just the right current.

I had been wandering for much longer when I met you:
Algate East, Notting Hill, King’s Cross. You and I

were foreign, untracked, unbonded. Oyster shells
on a tray pushed hastily to the door like wrappers,

or outfits, it was in Strete that you first
asked me how I felt. In the print on the hotel wall –

an immigrant artist on the shoulders of his slender wife,
which is neither a joke, nor a symbol of financial

dependance, but a metaphor

                                      of how love can save.

This is how I felt. I still feel it
but so much stronger.


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