j o h n  r o s

last vestige — me — sitting obsolete — resting hopeful — of this turn that makes life — existence — this turn that makes all one — that makes nothing more than everything.
this final vestige that is my back, my bone, my tail — this vestige of life that mocks — scorns — laughs.
corners tremble — such hate — such love — this last vestige is me — it’s you — it’s him — it’s her.

in vacant mind and listless wince — i tremble like corners — like vestigial organs — like you.
asleep on moons and park benches and in beds — together, alone, and quite possibly a vestige of what used to be — what could have been.
– what is –.