He left some years past
and with all the craft and skill he had
he parsed existence ceaselessly
pausing only to enjoy it’s wonders

He loved a woman who did not love him
and so he had no reason to visit
nor scarcely a reason to write back home

He crewed a small vessel and
he loved it, too.
It never did fail him, so he knew
it loved him back

And though he wandered so,
his mind never did, astoundingly

He was locked to the confines of space
and finding that it was big enough,
decided to let sleeping dogs lie

He’s there now,
I imagine,
though without a letter home
I guess I’ll never know.