It was

the idea of endless reinvention. Put on a ruffled
collar and hose in the morning, then at noon 
rip that costume off. By evening, shack up
with yourself in a citadel of your own choosing 
and decide you've had it with public life. The forms
of one's solitude are always works in progress.
Which is why you try. You can only try. Life, as anyone
can confirm, is a noose only as tight or as comfortable 
as you make it. Its other name is obsession. The scientist
walked through the cold streets at night back to the lab.
With the lamps unlit, she saw shelves of gleaming beakers,
particles unearthed from pitchblende. The hems 
of her skirts were lined with them. The pages of her
notebooks. A lifetime of following the trail they made.