Ballistics is the new book of poems by Billy Collins. Here are some excerpts from a few of them --
I am an ant inside a blue bowl
on the table of a cruel prince
("China")
and
There is a light rain.
A figure under an umbrella
is reading from a tick book with a black cover.
("Looking forward")
and
... this one marks nothing but the passage of time,
I realized, as I lowered a tin diving bell
of leaves into a little body of roiling water.
("New Year's Day")
and
Maybe I am awake just to listen
to the faint, high-pitched ringing
of tungsten in the single lightbulb
which sounds like the rustling of trees.
("Aubade")
I don't want to elaborate on the simplicity of these poems - I just want to love them.
