Meet a girl who reads in Veda, not prose, because she seems wholly foreign to you. Find a girl who speaks an ancient tongue. Be baffled—her words turn yours to doggerel, and her rhymes feel something anapest—one, one, two—let her chamoisee locks fall upon her scrolls—watch them undulate as she speaks at you. Call her Golden Blossom, Moonbreeze—something cryptic like the unwashed circle about her ring finger. Watch her in a quiet room, with Thoreau atop her bosom, modestly fingering through the folds of her whiskey-stained paper—her maenad saunter about the floor. Dare not disturb her as she reads—her, who seems at once the Jabberwock. Do not look into her eyes—because she will not return the favor. Just breathe her calm, foam at the mouth—she, Skadi, and you, the gull, who dances ungracefully, disgracefully in your heart—
     her lips mouth the words,
     silence like the hush cricket:
     imperial sound
that you deem empyrean—an edict you ought not comprehend—vespertinal like the hand that summons you, to her—find her—the manuscript that reads in Veda, not prose.