“I’m so glad I’m not young anymore,” Sacha said. “That helps. My God, the abject humiliation of falling in love.” She might not have been young, but she was pretty enough to be able to say things like that and not seem pathetic.

I didn’t know if she was talking about Anders, who seemed to be in love with her, in a slightly berserk way. He was in Sweden this month, doing research, or, as Viridian teased her, on a mission of errantry designed to win favor in his beloved’s eyes. Sacha just smiled. You had to wonder about those two.

I’d gotten into the habit of going to Viridian’s in the late afternoon, doing what needed to be done in the garden, then sitting with her and whoever might be visiting. Sometimes it was Barb or Chloe or another of the hens. Sometimes other poets, friends of hers, who either lived nearby or might be in San Francisco for one or another reason. I didn’t talk much, just listened, soaking everything up. I wanted to keep living this way, among people who talked about writing, sometimes frivolously, sometimes seriously, often both in the same conversation. I wanted to spend my afternoons eating macarons or panna cotta or whatever treat somebody showed up with. I wanted the clothes they wore, the lives they’d lived. I guess you could say I had a poetry crush.

I was learning a lot, in a disorganized way. Viridian kept loaning me more books, as had Sacha and Oscar. James Wright, H.D., John Berryman, Elizabeth Bishop. Sexton and Plath, Roethke and Snyder. Newer poets just starting to make a name for themselves. I found that if I read the poems out loud to myself, I could make some headway with them. This was a relief, although I didn’t want to make too much of it. I didn’t want to be a curiosity, like those people born mentally handicapped and blind, who are geniuses at playing the piano. I’m just saying, I was a little self-conscious.

I read all the books they lent me. There were those moments, rare but wonderful, when a particular poem would make me feel as if a huge bird inhabited my chest and now it was struggling to take flight.

I’d gone back to Doug’s a few times as well. I wasn’t a member of the Doug fan club; I thought he was a little too full of himself, or maybe a lot. But he wasn’t in the office that much. I liked Jonathan, and I had to admit, I liked the beautiful house as well. I liked being around the enterprise of the magazine, which was literally taking shape under our hands. I made phone calls, took messages, helped Jonathan make changes in a master file. Sometimes poets showed up here too, most often to meet Doug for lunch or dinner.