Antlers in the Conference Room
       

It's not loud at first around a crowd of us,
more like walnuts clacking in a wooden bowl.
But then the antlers lock in the archway
and lay waste to the chandelier,
and we're casting shadows until
the ceiling is an incised atelier,
and we're hot flank to hot flank,
some of us convinced our heads
deserve to be mounted
above a blueprint.
Whereas, frankly,
I, for one, increasingly would like to crash
through a forest, any forest,
or forklift snow with my impressive gear.
Or just stand here lifting,
a weight lifter when it comes to my head:
I can't help my head,
if the same arguments grow out of it.

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Copyright © 2015 Lee Upton All rights reserved
from Bottle the Bottles the Bottles the Bottles
Cleveland State University Poetry Center
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission