Tate's poems continue to shred reality and keep its pieces wildly colliding. Anything can be a conscious agent on its own behalf, from ``A polar bear in sunglasses . . . holding a penny by its edge'' to ``Thirty olive trees . . . scribbling with crayons/ on the bowler hats of eagles.'' Enclosed in narrative frames achieved through the stockpiling of declarative sentences, these verbal apparitions dare the mind's eye to envision them, testing constantly the liveliness of words (``O wan vermin! Your calisthenics in the creamery/ move gumballs home to my delirium'') as well as the reader's patience. Inspired nonsense or linguistic breakthrough? Anybody's guess, but Tate, ``a cordial rebel on a spree,'' demands the most of his inventiveness, intent on proving that our world is no more meaningful or meaningless than his. Fred Muratori, Cornell Univ. Lib.