Horoscopes for the Dead: Poems

In his ninth book of poems (after Ballistics), Collins recalls a boyhood passion for collecting: "lantern, spyglass, tomahawk...in the order you would need them in," a sweet beginning with ominous implications. And there is a sharp edge to his fabrications in this volume, which begins with a verbal prank at his parents' grave, ends with the last poem he will ever write, and includes a catalog of his unborn children. His Florida is not Paris; his friend does not have cancer, nor is she human; and the dead don't do anything that appears here in their absurd, generic horoscopes (nor would they have even when alive). In the empty lawn chairs, "no one is resting a glass or placing a book facedown," and the most delightful companions are the cemetery dead. As if feeling naughty, the poet lounges poolside and regards a floating rubber version of himself: "a cool ducky, nonchalant/ little dude on permanent vacation." Ultimately, these absorbing games can't deny the fundamental calamity: grief seeps between the cracks. VERDICT Witty bleakness from a former poet laureate and one of the country's most popular poets.—Ellen Kaufman, Baruch Coll., New York