I am still ill. Rubbish.

Whistle practise

I practise the notes around mi with too much
time for the lack of mastery. My lungs today
have kept me going and still they work,

a miracle all their own. I craft them into bellows
for notes in air, notes that don't exist except
as half-holes sliding. I am distracted by the thinking

wheel of an email programme until it becomes
my own factory setting for thought. The notes
keep my lungs in order and though I am without

relaxed hips it is enough to stop me for a while
and suddenly I am having to travel back in the dark
from the furthest music to my own heartbeat to here.