Go, little book, / out of this house and into the world,
carriage made of paper rolling toward town / bearing a single passenger beyond the reach of this jittery pen / and far from the desk and the nosy gooseneck lamp.
It is time to decamp, / put on a jacket and venture outside, / time to be regarded by other eyes, / bound to be held in foreign hands.
So off you go, infants of the brain, / with a wave and some bits of fatherly advice:
stay out as late as you like, / don’t bother to call or write, / and talk to as many strangers as you can.
Review: “Collins has earned almost rock-star status. . . . He knows how to write layered, subtly witty poems that anyone can understand and appreciate—even those who don’t normally like poetry. . . . The Collins in these pages is distinctive, evocative, and knows how to make the genre fresh and relevant.”—The Christian Science Monitor
