The last stroke
of midnight dies.
All day in one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air:
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
from "Broken Dreams"
by William Butler Yeats
Come, my songs,
let us speak of perfection
We shall get ourselves rather disliked.
by Ezra Pound
This collection of works is dedicated to my son and my wife. Forgive its
errors and imperfections just as you do with me.
Copyright 2002, Richard Van Ingram and Degenerate Press. All Rights Reserved.