In Billy Cancel's The Autobiography of Shrewd Phil something is going on. There is an edge along which the poet walks with purpose. The narrator states: "I fought a bear i liked/it//i rejoiced/with scissors." The poems are diminutive canvases on which color supplants meaning--"clay works heard dumb/shapes screeching." There is no loci or voice just the tattered remnants of a voice. Someone says "shutters i saw purple light hold/an empty fountain square" and "the northern hemisphere/was covered/in portrait."