I first encounted Alan Dugan's work in what was Marlboro College's excuse for a "Contemporary American Poetry" class (this was 1992). I remember liking his work at the time, but mostly because it had so much drinking in it. Can't say that I have thought about it (Dugan's work) for many years.

I suppose it's an accomplishment of a sort, for a poet to die of something besides a heartattack induced by hard living, an overdose, or suicide.

Goodbye, Mr. Dugan. Sleep well.