The best metaphors are wrapped in silken threads of matter and meaning. The cocoon of the

womb correlates stitches, stretches. The womb is elasticity. A noun that carries an adjective.

When the artist painted Jane Austen’s governess as pastel embodied, there were semiotics. She,

who, when dawn pulls over, gets out of bed in cold pastoral hours. To then arrange her hair into a

tight braid, as birds in the backyard chirp whilst idiomatic morning worms resemble a bracelet.

By twilight they will be no more. The thorns would have shredded two parts of gloaming with its

pair of eyes. All through the equinox, while birds lay eggs in climes suited to hibernations, they

know the nothings. So tell her, while she recites verses and psalms, to forget the idea of beyond-
ness. There is no home.