SIMON meets the poet at the International Arrivals Building, holding one hand behind him. The nine-hour Finnair flight from Helsinki has been ex?hausting, but she has met A, B, C, and D -- Russian poets so fabulously gifted that none of them has been allowed to publish so much as a weather report. "Thats terrific," he says. "You look beautiful." "They all speak English," she says, "this half-misunderstood English which is three times as good as regular English." She notices that he is holding something be?hind his back. "Whats that?" He produces a large, naked steak, a steak big as a Sunday Times. She is em?barrassed and pops the steak into her canvas carryall. "I dont get your metaphor," she says in the cab. "Is it hunger?"

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