the wayward wonder,
wanders,
so void of temperance
set to test
the metric
of the meandering 
mettle,
voraciously unsettled,
and, still, so
silent
with the oculars, and 
mind
sought and finding
the next best fit
his wits
were
conspiring
to hold, in
hiding.

sense the ages passing,
played,
in micro,
through the season’s
grandstand 
distractions,
while muting the macro
understanding,
you know,
all star dust and gases,
set seeking iris
matches,
in the reflected, at least,
being that the I,
is the company
doomed
to keep.