I built my antler
on a sledge of salt and ash,
watching it slide
into the hand-tray's air port,
watching it take off with and without me
over swingsets and boom boxes,
fished with in transcendent crannies
laced with milk white mice
expecting and expecting
the rim's planetary solvent to melt off,
like a wet glove,
like a fine mask,
like a funnel-full.