I never knew them all, just hummed and thrummed my fingers with the radio, driving five hundred miles to Austin. Her arms held all the songs I needed. Our boots kept time with fiddles and the charming sobs of blondes, the whine of steel guitars sliding us down in deer-hide chairs when jukebox music was over.
In 2014, Dean Young was appointed state poet laureate of Texas. The William Livingston Chair of Poetry at the University of Texas-Austin, Young has published twelve books of poetry and one volume of prose on the aesthetics of poetry. He has also received numerous awards and honors for his poetry, including a Guggenheim Fellowship, a Wallace E. Stegner Fellowship, the American Academy of Arts and Letters Literature Award, and two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts.
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see my brother-in-law with a styled shirt in spite of his cancer below then a small dinner in the evening the next day no one knows except I may be on the road Mesquite where my father settled in '31 forty-five minutes west then a left you go in sister Sarita waits for me on Abby Street after decades in
Sunday takes us to the relic-boxes of small Texas towns, their shops of Sears and Roebuck sewing machine stands, bordello bedframes, and scrap-metal lawn art: a butterfly stakes a Spartan garden with pollen rust. Learning the hard way not to touch even the brass panel of a swinging