Ballistics!

Billy Collins' new book of poetry, Ballistics, is out, and my darling husband Jack bought it for me right away. I've had it in one hand or the other pretty much ever since. How kind of him to send out 68 more nearly perfect spaces into the world. It seems to me that the voice in this book is a little less joyous, a little more in touch with all the things that go wrong, but it is still a voice I could listen to every day.
One of the best things about poetry is the infinite variety, and that there is space in that variety for all of us. Billy can't be every man's cup of meat, but if you're not sure where your poetic stick floats, he's a very good place to start.
One poem, called January in Paris, seems to say everything I feel about poetry, and everything I hope poetry feels about me.
I hope you find joy.