I don’t know the man, but I know his poetry, and as is the way with poetry, I somehow know the man. The news of Dean Young’s condition has simply stopped me, this morning, from anything resembling routine.
There were rumours of ill health, if rumour is the word: glancing mentions in interviews, etc. The full disclosure now makes me feel old, looking back at a younger self who simply assumed things will right themselves, he’ll keep offering up poems for me to read. And he may still, he may still.
I’ll be giving something, for what he’s given me.
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