bill bissett is the author of some sixty books of poetry, each more full and fluid than the last, and the most recent collection, b leev abul char ak trs (Talon Books), is jam-packed. Here are meditations on holes in the sky, endangered species, "feer of farming," gravity depletion and love both fleeting and enduring, all shot through with stars, dreams, birds, premonitions, colour, magic, Gertrude Stein and a place called Zatria. This is big stuff, and while bissett never lets the reader off the hook, he also never gets preachy, gloomy or self-indulgent. In "qwestyun" he writes: "if despair is a mask 4 self pitee / n thrfor is not creativ / what is self pitee a mask 4 / is this / a dumb qwestyun / 2 hypothetikul / not interesting / nothing / angr / lafftr / time 2 dew the laundree." In bissett's world everything—I mean everything—is connected. This can make you cry or laugh or feel a bit crazy, sometimes all in the same poem.