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I once visited an old copper town in the upper peninsula of Michigan. The U.P. as the Yoopers say And on the U.P. it winters from October to April’s end where saloons and vacant churches pock each devoutly sodden block with a piss-penny for your thoughts. The hay was made there in the 1890’s, bronzed and plaqued in a shag-city square gray beyond grief -faced for no reason it remembers. It is a compelling obscurity. that I will visit again, one day when I have less to lose and more to forget. There the parking meters stand away from the curbs by big brick hollows, beyond the plow’s carve so high must pile the insulating snow.