Skies run like metros and my vision spews. Six million leaves and ways to leave the place behind. Skies run like metros and my vision spews.

Grandmother is old, stone colored, and alive. She tells me to run to Bagatelle, not wanting me to fatten. Marie Antoinette sat on this same dusty, moss-creased bridge and masturbated. Newly implanted prostitutes make pleasure for a price in the forest.

I feel warm on the periphery of Paris, when the leaves succumb to God’s poem, shouting “Ahhhhhhhhh” in robust whispers. Leaves remind me of babies, and when they are curled and brown, they remind me of dead babies. We know Marie Antoinette didn’t have any. I wonder if I will.

The stumps tell the leaves to shut up. And the gray screen, color of pussy cats, beckons the rain. And we tell ourselves to abuse hope, destined to die in palimpsest wrinkles wet still with mud. And we cry when we suffer because we come upon a pathway through the yellow-lime trees, laden with pungent excrement. It is unforgivable.

I am a huntress out to murder the essence— small but just as vivid as the tree that perches at my opposite. I am the huntress. Color is my prey and I will play the mortal game until it is mine to display on hard mantelpieces, digitally now. I am the huntress and I will prod the rock until it bleeds the thickest ruby blood. I— you façade-bearing savages, raped by green paper, deplorably parched for more—am the huntress.