Here is Bill reading his poem “Fiction” from his book He Dreams Of Waters.
If fiction is necessary what am I
doing in this torn dress at this very bus
stop he signs in a kind of language used
by polite intruders who enter ever ever so quietly
so what’s a Pip? The bus is named
Emma Bovary she smiles & gently moves over
one seat to let you sit down as we all must glance
just once, before it ends, the moonlight, the sultry breezes
& all the fleshly elements of from the heavens
of nights spent deep within the unimaginable crevices of
a run on tents of sentences, is everyone terribly not happy
as we both roll over & meet somewhere bumpy in the dark
that is life itself. I was born here, poor & distraught
of a deadly combination: a pen, blank paper, & a thought.