There's a poem which consists of ""hellohellohellohello. . ."" etc., across the page for two lines, and verse that goes on like: ""with you I am so/ whole/ that I don't even/ need sex"" and it makes one/ wonder/ how/ thin/ you can slice/ it. . . . However it is obvious that McWilliams has a gift for type-on-paper visual impact: ""your feeling about/ what is/ going on/ is more important than/ what is going on,"" but the emotion is so diffuse that it seems to float into a multitude of cloudy cliches -- no weight, no portent. Only in the last poem -- a listing of fragments of a loved one's life -- does intent coincide with art. fudgefudgefudgefudge.