 The title poem from the book, Invisible Gifts, and just a story about this poem, my partner Tom and I were house sitting and taking care of a family pet, my sister's beloved dog, Pepper, and this poem is in memory of Pepper. Invisible Gifts. Choose the dog collar, feathers dangling from the bell, mix beef bones and lemon peels, watch fat curl into fire, pick up cactus bloom, blow out pink flame, a box of ashes arrives at the door, one paw print, one leather collar, missed repetitions, round tin tags clinking against each other at 5 a.m., dog dance, leaping up towards invisible gifts, stroke his head on the hospital table, watch technician sink needle behind black paw, one eye slowly rotating, partial eclipse, blue shadow passing over pupil, the technician looks up, faint whistle in the waiting room. Thank you. And this poem is called Another World. Summer brought flowers this fall. We volunteered our skulls. We slept on utopian benches. Sometimes tourists got caught in the crossfire. The burning sensation. We locked eyelids. We held hope. Our bright torsos wrapped in sapphire suits. Don't touch. Please do. Then spring shot wet bullets into our electric skin. Thank you. So some of the poems I wrote in this book, I wrote while I was recovering from surgery. And my recovery period was about six months. And I kind of joke about it because it felt like a writing residency. Because I was home and couldn't really leave the house. And I had a lot of friends come over who would write with me. And this is one of the poems I wrote during that period. And it's called Objects. A blue glass bowl of miniature oranges, three inches from arm's reach. Eye, eye objects in terms of distance now, reachable, then not. This morning, I drop a plastic tub of butter on the kitchen floor. I try to reach it with my grabber. A temporary extension of my arm. The lid slides off. The butter tips. And my cat starts to lick. The objects in my life with more significance. Wheelchair over umbrella. Walker over work shoes. Bed tray over sunglasses. I measure distance from hand to knee to shin to heel. I think of Burma miles away. The grocery store miles away. My father's voice crackles through the phone miles and miles away. He, you were born in Burma. And then you're my niece, right? I push my body upwards from my wheelchair. I know that above the ceiling are wood and plaster and eventually sky and birds. Objects found and lost. My ex-husband's brown sandals. Loose feathers from a bird that my cat killed. A large, smooth seed given to me by a florist in Tokyo. I look down at the floor trying to remember. Thank you. And in the same vein, as is called, the dressing stick. The dressing stick, a limb on the edge of the green. And a twinkling star on the head of a small bear. Polydactyl paws, matted skin. A seven inch scar on the left hip. She peeled the scar back and underneath found a child wearing a star hat and star shoes. The hospital stood in the center of a large cornfield and observers remarked at its beauty and precision. They came bearing frankincense and painkillers. They wore shields. They could sew. They came bearing pork and beef. They held liquid in wires. She waved the dressing stick and the wires spelled words to her through the window of the blue tent. Thank you. Be hives of joy and bliss. While the goldfish swim in ovals, the finches nest nearby. And so we continue. They hear the buzzing inside. She leaves the nest. We sleep in a warm cove. Emerald visions, watery flights, be hives of bliss and joy. Soft signals, light landings, such colors of seduction. A pause, then a thought. Why fly over the ocean at night? Bright wings, colony of bees, buzzing of joy, buzzing of bliss. And now an image flickers through the airwaves. She came from the sky, right? The coral girl flies above. We see her sometimes with her rose wings, the emerald nests, the restless finches, the nectar seekers. Thank you. So I'm going to read a love poem. I don't write too many love poems, but I am going to read this one and it's called Nine. Nine. I was hypnotized by nine. I met him in a back valley. The cape he wore appealed. I took his hand and followed him home. Nine will never end an ally. We skateboard through the alley. Our powder blue capes flying through the valley of nine. We did it nine times. Capes flung on the floor. Caps hung on the door. Naples, not bread, noontide, night caps. Nevertheless, nine is fine with us. We swoop through space and time. Wild capes and caps captivated. Never ending valley of nine. I want to embarrass him. This is for my therapist. Are you in the room with me now? My therapist asked, why never cry? I asked myself the same, closing my eyes, a small sty in my vision. As hard as I tried not to cry, I was shy as a child. As I crossed the street with mother, I hid behind her lap coat. My throat taut and tight. I thought I might cry. The other night, I lost my sight. I could hear a couple on the crosswalk, a man doing a handstand, two kids making plans. Perhaps a chance to dance in another place. I could cross the state line, cry at the sight of a shimmering lake. My therapist asked, what are you thinking? How does that make you feel? Where did that come from? And are you in the room with me now? In Rio, there is a majestic cross on a cliff. People live in pink paper shacks below. I danced and I drank there. I thought I might die there. I crossed myself, although I didn't believe. You sweat silver tears. You see through pink paper walls. You think your body might be crying now. Thank you. So I'm a teacher. I'm an instructor. But before that, many, many years ago, I worked for years in different libraries. So this is one of my library poems, which I wrote while I was at work. The indexing of sensation. Gene comes into the library and passes wild flowers into my hands. Put these in water, darling, and have a brilliant day. I push the cart down the carpeted aisle. The repetition of movement is a meditation. The art of Benin, Paula Ben Amos, N7397N5C5. Anno's counting book, Mitsumasa Anno, PZA5875. The Forgotten Ones, Milton Rogovan, TP820.5R64. The Balloon, a bicentennial exhibition, TL615B34. Maps of countries that don't exist anymore. The archiving of fantasies. The referencing of systems. The indexing of sensation. For all the librarians out there. We love the librarians and the libraries. Softer Animals, and this is for my friend Rob. It is raining. It is Thursday night. There are 36 steps up to Anna's apartment on the east side. A bed with softer animals. A Doberman Pinscher walks into a 7-Eleven and buys a carton of milk. I notice these things. Rain waters the buildings and they grow and grow. Makes thieves work harder. Soffins, mountains, runes, sandwiches. Some paintings make me cry. I like crying. Gunsmoke was a good show to cry to. Also the Walton's Christmas Special. Anna is reading about corpse flowers in western Sumatra. The towering plants bloom every 10 years. Anna tells me they thrive on flesh flies in rainforests. I knew that already. What I don't know is how lightning feels on the body. Or what makes a glow worm glow. Or why the neighbor keeps knocking his head against the wall. Thank you. All right. Do you know the fruit durian? Okay, good. This is called durian. I am the lonely king. Ruler of all both sick and sweet. I sit on my throne alone, woven branch and leaf. Cloak of spikes and thorns prevents touch. Hard husk, I trust no one. Should I crack open upon fall or wall? Ascent so foul and rank. Tremble and crawl. Tremble and crawl. I won't say who that poem is about. Thank you. And this poem is for my father who passed away several years ago and it's called Lost Horse Valley. The horse is lost. Needles from a Joshua tree, Choya and Okatio, quail, cadet gray, moonlit, wire lettuce, antlion wings. He passes into the valley. Left behind three containers of Quaker oats, bitter black tea in a cup, empty suitcases tied together with twine, a dusty army cap on the kitchen counter. The youngest daughter clips his toenails as the monitor slows. Another daughter flies over the valley. Thank you. And this is my last poem and it's called You Will Be With Me in a Town Called Paradise. The sound of horns and bells, the sound of round crowns and brown birds, blue bells. You will be with me in a town called Paradise with a slice of cake, cluster of cherries, champagne on ice. The night we met a New Year's Eve party, a talent show, someone pretends to be a stork, another pop of a cork. Your clear eyes and warm head. I couldn't hear your eyes but I could see your voice is paradise this bed. Two cotton blankets and a comforter on my side, a light sheet on yours, blue bells on the dresser. You touch the cat's fur, orange beneath the chin. She leaps off your chest. We rest for a while. Thank you very much.