Between the poet and the grimacing womanon a beat-up blue bicycle,lies a blurred wasteland. She hasn’t always been this person. Her squalid apartmentthe letters scrawled in mad inkthat fizz by themselves in my in-basket the dreamy smilethat makes her look, suddenly, young. Walking the tightrope with herignoring the drop of the past, avoiding looking downto … Continue reading The paranoid poet