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.