Something about the forest makes a girl wanna shoot at something, hold a loaded gun in her hand. Start a fire with the flick of a lacquered finger nail. Eat something. She think this be a forest. Step into the cold, let the core be cold a while, be in the river. Match the skin on the foot with the loosened skin of the river bed. Sift through the rocks, come upon the green clay, let it pass through the space around the hand. She can cook up the whole feast without clay. Without fire. Give her painted fingernails and city limits, and let that be fire. And let the bullet be a lonely sound.