And going in all the while I was livid with fear like the girl who wanted to sleep over until we said she could sleep over who began to cry and called home to be taken away from our darkness or our not-homeness or our not-her-motherness. On a bike ride I investigated the depths of my panic, repeat sign for which there is no correction, not white out not delete not even improv. The tree has taken on poison, Bryant says, and you are not a tree doctor. Either the tree will flush the poison or it won’t. There’s something in it for the tree, if not leaves or flowers. Beauty’s for the birds. Fools like me compose. Compose yourself. There are lines you must not cross. Spry cordage is where it’s at. Sling it between trees, lie down, face to the blue sky’s wandering cloud; do not wonder why you went to Misrata, or even home.
–23 April 2011