Askov, Finlayson & The Mines of Mora

I've been told:
that if you leave your keys at the bottom
of Lake Superior you'll get them again
the next time you swing around that hill
and your ears'll pop like a plummeting
stock. Being a northerner is like going
to bed with ice. You've just gotta wait
for the great thaw. Once you get used
to the gusts, or the construction, or the
calm, unobstructed views, you've still
got the good folk to get used to.
The ones who welcome fisherman
with gamy slabs of shit on bread
and a greasy handful of chips.
Ones who never thought after their
visits to the dentist
that it would end up like this.

The ones who are getting old,
and don't seem to get
our obsession with going North.
Why we peel back the highway
and are pulled the strongest way:
to the North lay the silence,
to the North rest the memorials
that memorialize nothing.
Where the mines dwell deep
within the woods,
and the roads hug the steep,
staggered curve of the
hilly neighborhood.

The night is cold,
and the lights in the lake
form a column in the sky,
like seven ivory discs
aligning for the big omen.
The barge is drifting
and tugging its lights
through the curtain of
the dark, long lake.
I've been told:
that with a black cup of coffee
you'll always make it home.
Past Askov, Finlayson,
stopping at Mora's mines,
which echoed a familiar fear
that we had traveled North
for the last time.