My scent once killed an outcast house-martin,
come Summer, Africa would have scented its plume.
I heard its last tweet from the vice of a factory cats mouth.
Since childhood I have learnt how migrant beings sing when free.
Sky is the skin of the universe and we are both the illness and the cure,
I used to whistle back to the crow incapable of joy because I saw myself in her.
Should the day ever come when I tweet my heart
I will not need one hundred and sixty characters to do so
I will hit the space bar one hundred and fifty nine times, then a comma –
and this will be my last tweet hoping that my song is all that is left and yet to come.
My Mothers scent once made three healthy boys,
she made a nest of working class heirlooms that stay with me,
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