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There’s a gecko in my home, scurrying behind packaged food, racing up a window pane, frightened by my pounding presence. The little immigrant appears next night on a wall of the laundry room, wings between its jaws, meat in its teeth.

In a world of geometry and hard spaces, it flirts and bends on rubbery pads. Silent and quick, it seeks the surplus of my old home, bugs and sediment, the hidden life. It has a single agenda: survival in a strange land.

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