Iowa 

We were rich as sin
Shakespearean fools
So we bought ourselves
An enchanted prairie
>Lie in that prairie
Just in the center of that prairie
(Where bottle gentian
Throws a punch like a priest)
It will tell you
The exact truth

The chickens believe
They have found the home of the
Common ancestor
In vain hope
Of dissuasion
I hang a red cloth
In the lightning tree

Dirt whines and licks at my hands
This load of smoked moonlight
I will carry in shifts

Not to you
For you
Not that you have inherited grace
But that it arrived
And was stubborn