Hungarian Plains

To: Golden-brown Ohio wheat in the form of an iris, plaid shirts and Kansas boys, freckled shoulders, plantains and plantations, and my hope.
From: Broken-hearted eloquence and 5,280 feet.

This is a not-quite-love poem about near-inch long eyelashes and last chances and wars.
This is a lullaby and a serenade.
This is pleading and begging in a phonetic, Latin-derived alphabet.

We could have met on Hungarian plains.
Or in the twilight of Illinois with straw between our teeth.
Love at first sight, hiding out in the barn with the cows and sheep.
A first kiss under a yew tree.
This will never happen.
Cots and bent spines and a worn heart--that is our destiny.
Letusbreakit,letuschangeit,letusfixit,please.
Let's travel to Italy or Africa and kiss under the Bridge of Sighs or before an elephant.

This is an apology for the concept of soul mates.