Ishpeming

Ishpeming
lit like a porch,
lifted itself
arms open
to a lost pulpit.

All those lakes were
weepers opened up
on a cold face
looking north;

each moment
old,
lit
from the inside
out.

I said a prayer
for my compass
even as I tossed
it to the pile.

All that confounding iron
pushing pine needles
up off the earth,

and a great North,
arms open
to unnamed constellations.