Phenomenology, an attempt

The relative buries me. My old hands along the Turnpike. 

I watch snow collect and drop in uneven squares many states

west. I don’t know how I got here. SSRI withdrawals just

for the hell of it. I like to watch my chest detach, shiver

over my life like a flimsy lid. The roiling weather. I read

a survival story of an avalanche. To survive, spit. I give you

my throat because I’m staging something. A cry to win over

all cries, grant me a gold-lacquered disc, a prefrontal fever.

Three payments are made to find my mother’s hips, the great

orbs that thronged me with a name, a terrible panic. I see red

bank statements, a kind of psychic flesh. What is it called when

love turns to fur on the tongue, is it sumptuous, does it taste.

I don’t know what I’m doing here. How did I get here.