postcard poetry 7

the most recent postcard poem was titled: steptoe bute, idaho

so what is it
that makes the grainlands
so fruitful,
the spilt blood of 100 dragons
or the sloswed(?) wine of the wealthy
as they viewed from the top
an they own?
or could it be as simple
as the sun rising with the uneat(?),
each reflecting the owner
back to itself?