Arthur Yap opens worlds in deft ways of english anguish language plenitudes: he is an amazing poet of Singapore everydayness and wry wit under the capitalism of pragmatic streets and malls. Deft moments of religiosity and self dismantlement (not to mention the disfigurement of traditions and neighborhoods and traditions) figure in via a wry calculus of gain and loss, feeling and abandonment. He has much to reveal on writing and thinking in "the space of city trees," meaning Singapore and what is left to the poetic spirit. This book is a gift and prayer, from a poet and painter of stellar imagination, quiet intelligence, and abandoned wry wit. Three cheers to you Arthur Yap, from a kindred spirit in Honolulu who appreciates your book like a food.