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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.

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