She met the poet in another state, while an English undergrad. He was a visiting professor. His reputation proceeded him, as did his aura before he entered a room. She managed to get into one of his few classes that semester and before long was attending every available office hour window. She finally shared some of her work with him and he was encouraging but carefully critical. She really felt like her poems benefitted from the time they spent with him. She would read his books repeatedly, skipping around, referencing them like sacred texts.
So for post-grad, she would go to the city where he lived. It didn't matter that he wasn't teaching anywhere at the time. She found out where he would hang out and attempt to appear casual as she sometimes literally bumped into him, showering him with compliments and speaking nostalgically about her time in his class during undergrad.
Eventually, she would find her way into his rare and semi-secret workshops. He remembered her older work, so his compliments--and critiques--had a richer context and a deeper meaning.
She was falling for him, but of course she wasn't going to admit it. She wasn't a fool.