Her roster of demands was the sole entity that bested her roster of needs. He succumbed without a thread of thought, and out of habit, he did not presume. He fell into step with her commands. She balked, he marched to find solutions. He thinned the level of backlog until she replenished her store of lack. He filled their house with things not to connect. Slivers of path were planted a posteriori. The empirical jungle left few things resolved. His life's work opposed his dream of choice. She lived to be a fiction, and he never felt alone. Her spindly muscle of a heart kept on repeating, and his atmosphere went dim as winter afternoon. When all the whites seemed gray, when all the trees bent thin.
Theory after all, a glut of practice, a silence quite apart
Sheila E. Murphy
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