Karen Peris,
you spin threads of longing, long
threads of wist and wishes and leave them
in the paths of strangers,
drop them out of your window high
on the fifteenth floor or from
the car as you
are going by.

You worry that a thousand miles are needed,
that a thousand words are necessary,
a thousand gestures from the thousand
slenderest muscles,

but the nine hundred ninety-nine
meets your single mile,
single word, single gesture of your slender
finger, slender tongue. 

I am here at the thousandth mile,
catching hold of your longing, long
thread of wist and the eternal
ache, I am here.  I
can almost see you.