Obtain equal parts Dane Cook and Thomas Hardy. Blend well. Publish. Yields: 51 Billy Collins poems.

A poet unrivaled in sarcastic wit and candor, Collins is the perfect antidote to English 2100 and up. Those jaded by Longfellow and Frost may be tempted to throw in the towel as the semester winds to a close, but Collins offers a fresh take on his chosen form of expression: the poem.

In Collins’ straightforward work, no theme lies buried under layers of impenetrable literary limestone, no lengthy metaphor aims to perplex. This wildly popular and widely appreciated poet has dished up a delightful collection that requires neither chisel nor spelunker’s license.

Collins’ “Horoscopes for the Dead,” published by Random House this April, is a fresh take on human mortality through the eyes of a poet who is just plain funny. Better yet, it’s a collection that can be equally enjoyed from the Ivy League East to the beach-bum West. It’s just that accessible.

That’s not to say “Horoscopes” is thematically shallow. On the contrary, Collins’ every piece calls for closer examination of the human condition. Collins handles heavy subjects like death, loss and transience, but it’s not often difficult to figure out how he feels about each.

The main idea of each poem wallops the reader in the face, but because Billy Collins is the author, it’s in a good-humored way.

Collins’  opening poem, “Grave,” showcases his signature just-kidding-but-really delivery. The first stanza, “What do you think of my new glasses/I asked as I stood under a shade tree/before the joined grave of my parents,” is a seemingly blasé remark followed by the gut-wrenching yet light-handed gravity for which Collins is so well known. Woe mixes with wit. The end result? An amusing middle ground.

The remaining 50 poems showcase the same balancing act between funny and weighty. They range in length (the longest is 63 lines, the shortest only five), style and, of course, subject.

Collins reflects on everything from the listless lifestyle of his dog to his own transience on Earth. He endures a hangover, pokes fun at the valley-girl dialect and compares mattress shopping to one of Dante’s circles of Hell. His jocular tone never falters.  

While humorous, Collins’ work retains the core that makes it meaningful and universal. Readers who do choose to dive into “Horoscopes” with pick-axe and headlamp poised, will not be disappointed; they are bound to uncover Collins’ serious undertones.

“Horoscopes” mulls over human mortality more than any of Collins’ previous compilations. Titles such as “Cemetery Ride,” “Memento Mori” and “After I Heard You Were Gone” point to the pervading theme. Even the benign-sounding “Roses” describes flowers “expiring by degrees of corruption/in plain sight of all the neighbors passing by.”

Such morbidity, however, is sprinkled about with the lightest of hands. A thorough perusal of “Horoscopes” leaves the reader refreshed and ready for a second helping of Collins’ razor wit.

Unfortunately, future Collins offerings might be thin. His last poem, “Returning the Pencil to Its Tray,” has an air of finality. The line “I will never have to write again” carries something of that signature Collins subtlety.

One is left to wonder if the man is, at last, being serious.