They tell me that your heart 
has been found in Iowa, 
pumping along Interstate 35. 
Do you want it back? 

When the cold comes on 
this fast, it's Iowa again-- 
where pollen disperses 
evenly on the dented Fords, 

where white houses sag 
by the town's corn silos, 
where people in the houses 
sicken on corn dust. 

Auctions sell entire farms. 
It's not the auctions that's upsetting 
but what they sell, the ragged towel 
or the armless doll, for a dollar. 

I hear they've found 
an eye of yours in Osceola 
calling out to your mouth in Davis City. 
That mouth of yours is in the bar, 

the only place left in town, 
slow dancing and smoking. 
It's no wonder you look so pale. 
Ever wish you'd done more 

with your thirty years? 
Seeing you last week I wonder 
if you crave that sky 
filled with the milky way 

or the sight of Amish girls in blue 
at sunset against wheat-colored prairie grass. 
Here, the trees are full of gossip. 
They're waiting to see what you'll do next.