Kevin Cawley<\/p>\n
HYPERSENSITIVITY<\/p>\n
Allergic always to the things we love,
\nwe wonder how we ever got that way:
\ncats and plants, companions up from clay
\nas we came forth from dirt to weave the glove
\ndesigned to keep the hand from getting dirty —
\ncats and plants encourage a congestion
\nthat makes us sneeze and ruins our digestion.
\nWe pet, we water, but our virtues hurt.<\/p>\n
This doesn’t, of course, apply to you, my pet.
\nDoctors distinguish allergy, which can
\ndevelop only after prolonged exposure,
\nfrom hypersensitivity. The wet
\nkiss of a dead bee kills a man.
\nNo warning. An original disclosure.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
RELUCTANCE<\/p>\n
The way a cat will linger at the door
\npace and scratch until you open it
\nand let the night air nip, the way a cat
\nwill linger there as you impatiently<\/p>\n
nudge her with your toe, the way a cat
\nwill hump up like a caterpillar then,
\nwalk halfway out and all the way back in,
\nthe way a cat will linger at the door<\/p>\n
reminds me of myself in my approach
\nto evening and its promises, my wad
\nfattening the wallet in my pocket,<\/p>\n
wealth to an uncomfortable degree —
\nand I with plans to dance and do some drinking
\nlogy-legged pause inside the door.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
AFTER THE PARTY<\/p>\n
A snowy night to tow a car away.
\nFrost on the window. I can barely see
\nthe truck block traffic, but its blinking lights
\npenetrate even the least translucent place.<\/p>\n
I parked it wrong, too weary to walk the blocks
\nbetween the last free space and here, my heated
\nroom. And once inside, the tea brewing,
\nthe cat curled on the carpet and the coat<\/p>\n
dripping melt into the bathtub, I smoke
\nthe glass up with my breath and just can’t care.
\nI watch the cops absconding with my car.<\/p>\n
They’ve broken in to neutralize the drive.
\nTheir flashers filter through a static star.
\nMy tea grows cold. I hear the news arrive.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
BUILDINGS AND GROUNDS<\/p>\n
Cars remain outside the campus proper,
\ngrids of color on an oil-base plain:
\nmodern as Mondrian, their boxy shapes
\nwould go against the college-gothic grain.<\/p>\n
An Eden of ogival timelessness,
\nbuildings a millenium out of date —
\nwith new construction patterned on the rest,
\nthe campus lies perpetually in state.<\/p>\n
Pedestrians invited to avoid
\nthe rush of traffic on its grassy mall
\nimagine an Arcadian quietude.<\/p>\n
All summer long the rider mowers mow
\nand vacuum cleaners kick up in the fall
\nand power plows take over in the snow.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
HAPPY HOUR<\/p>\n
Confident youngsters quoting theory
\ngather for drinks (don’t call them cocktails)
\nsigh with a footnote deploring their weariness,
\ntired of talking, of taking stock.<\/p>\n
Already constructing nostalgic tales
\nretailing their exploits, their younger days,
\nhardly a one of them falters or fails
\nto preen, to elicit implicit praise.<\/p>\n
Hardly a one, and that one not male,
\nan auxiliary member without a pass
\nto the racquet club lockers — and yet her tale<\/p>\n
reflects theirs back in a backward glass,
\nreverses their images, staking her claim:
\nwomen in business, more of the same.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
RICH YOUNG MAN<\/p>\n
Not your usual insomniac:
\nplans to give computers to the poor.
\nMuscles twitter in his lower back:
\nmessages of guilt and nothing more.<\/p>\n
Broadcast guilt, primordial, axiomatic,
\nopposes revolutionary form:
\nby day it merely interferes like static,
\nskips across the screen, does little harm.<\/p>\n
By night with other signals off the air
\nan empty-sea-shell gale begins to blow:
\nits noise presents a blizzard to the ear,<\/p>\n
its chaos fills the picture-tube with snow.
\nYou’ve bought another brain? Whatever for?
\nThen give your spare computers to the poor.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DECEMBER<\/p>\n
I doubt that doubt has done me any harm.
\nThe difficulty comes when people draw
\ndubious conclusions from their doubts.<\/p>\n
We’ve had some rain but very little snow.
\nI doubt the weather forecast every morning.
\nAnd yet one day I wake up and a white<\/p>\n
renewal covers every rusty heap
\nfrom Maine to Minnesota. After lunch
\nI criticize the prospects for tomorrow.<\/p>\n
Unmitigated by my skepticism
\nthe science of meteorology develops;
\nits history continues unabashed.<\/p>\n
The vagaries of an individual day
\nnever undo the wisdom of its doctrine.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
IMPEDIMENT<\/p>\n
Criticism simply means close reading.
\nHow can anyone object to that?
\nTo figure out the leanings of the greedy
\nexplicate their superficial chat.<\/p>\n
No judging? Nonsense. Everybody does.
\nYour fondness for that principle betrays
\na hidden longing to escape the laws
\nthat generate what anybody says.<\/p>\n
So now you think I’m turning it on you.
\nI see your judgment in the way your jaws
\ncontract; of course you judge: you know you do.<\/p>\n
Without a word you demonstrate just cause
\n(changing the subject, dwelling on the weather)
\nwhy you and I can never get together.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
SEE-SAW<\/p>\n
Poise in the pen exonerates no doctrine:
\nequilibrium allows no play
\nof pivots to identify the point.<\/p>\n
But saws of controversy let us see
\nthe center of inventive wavering,
\nthe medium that makes the see-saw work.<\/p>\n
Weighty thoughts on one side or the other
\ntip the balance of a private mind.<\/p>\n
However in the staggering of conviction
\nthe hub remains perpetually unmoved:
\nthe saw-horse serves its turn by going nowhere.<\/p>\n
An axle makes an excellent see-anchor.
\nThe deck heaves as we train our see-sick eyes
\non undeniable stability.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
AUGMENTED AND DIMISHED<\/p>\n
Dazzled by oracles, nevertheless I see
\nthe unreliable side of augury.
\nA chimney pigeon chuckling in the smoke
\nreduces wind-chill to a feeble joke;
\npreening as usual, pecking away at lice,
\nit mimes proverbial bibles of advice,
\nknows the latest future and appears
\nto understand a fellow-pilgrim’s fears.
\nBut nature talks in circles, physical rime,
\nholds forth in outright riddles half the time,
\nor aphorisms turned so well that we
\ninterpret with an air of certainty
\nand only in the aftermath admit
\nthat aspects of our theory didn’t fit.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
CATHOLIC JEALOUSY<\/p>\n
Sanely jealous, darling, I admit
\nmy culpability when I commit
\nhigh crimes in wisecracks, misdemeanor glares,
\nor willing prey of even fouler snares
\nanswer you rudely when you mean to win
\nmy truant passion back to class again.
\nCompetently nasty I enlist
\nevery violence short of a clenched fist.
\nOthers may of course expunge the stain
\nwith pleas of temporarily insane,
\nattempt to turn your snit to sympathy
\nby claiming love has made them less than free.
\nI rest my case on guilt and then repent
\ntrusting your divinity to relent.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
GOT LOST<\/p>\n
Maybe you were feeling overtired,
\nyour caginess which signalled Go away
\na temporary choreography,
\nthe\u00a0pas de deux\u00a0of dissonance required
\nin all Romantic dances, interplay
\nof tensions that eventually relent,
\nrelax into an amiable cliche,
\nthe clinch unclenching, all dissention spent.
\nMore likely, though, you never cared to dance,
\nwould rather not interpret every gesture
\nas narrative development. Romance
\nconsiders each new setback on the quest
\nas one more wonder in a grand ballet.
\nBut you more likely mean what your actions say.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
FOCUS<\/p>\n
We pray continually as commanded
\nby the force of Natural Law. We can’t
\npause for a moment. Every gripe goes up
\nto heaven like a helium balloon.
\nEvery yelp of pleasure, every curse
\ncourses away. Concentric waves of will
\nrebound from every pebble that we toss
\nuntil a formless turbulence prevails.<\/p>\n
Occasionally an individual learns
\nto calm that surface, still that stormy business,
\nthrow all throwing over for a while.
\nImagine a pond flat as a plate glass table:
\nthe child above it listens for a moment,
\nleans on a balance boulder, tips it in.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
UNLIMITED ACCESS<\/p>\n
Ravaged alleys, incidental roads
\nin neighborhoods too poor to rate repair
\nor country routes that parallel divided
\nturnpikes engineered for limitation<\/p>\n
failing to exclude locality
\ncontinue to serve the locals they annoy
\ninviting them to slow down and admire
\nmeritorious decrepitude.<\/p>\n
Erosion promises deliverance:
\nbodies and their artifacts wear out;
\nexcresences of history comprise<\/p>\n
a moment of geological distraction,
\nanother wafer in the press of strata
\nthinner than most and not at all discordant.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
CAREER ADVICE<\/p>\n
Mistake the pointing finger for the moon.
\nSuccess in criticism comes from learning
\nnot to take the flaming fact to heart.
\nDescribe the finger. Tell us how it rose<\/p>\n
from flippers of the mutant fish, explain
\nhow knuckles work, compare the nail to rhino
\nhorn, investigate the skin. But under
\nno conditions look the way it points.<\/p>\n
Otherwise you melt your eye in milk.
\nYou lose your marbles and your better judgment
\nknows better than to go along with that.<\/p>\n
Intelligent sugar stays away from tea.
\nWhere every wave has its own bag of wind
\nthe sea will never level with a moon.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
BATTLE OX<\/p>\n
At first the ox resembled other oxen.
\nA heavy sort of beast. We made him work
\nthe counter at the deli serving lox
\nand bagels. After hours he would lurk<\/p>\n
along the alley in the back, his horns
\nat ready waiting for a rumble. Gangs
\nof motorcycle chain-swingers torn
\nbetween scorn and admiration rang<\/p>\n
their changes on his scarless hide.
\nThe ox would gore them and enjoy the gore
\nuntil the old offender in him died<\/p>\n
releasing the brighter ox within, more
\nplacidly to snort and as he sighed
\nmore calmly conscious minding at the store.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
PRIMUS INTER PARES<\/p>\n
What funny animals — humanity!
\nCrime animals. Premeditated cons
\ntrivialize their courtly comedy.
\nThat best of beasts, the literary lion,<\/p>\n
rehearses, underneath his paling mane,
\nscenarios that demonstrate his Might,
\nthe cultured muscle of his bench-pressed brain
\nplotting to make his plodding wit less trite.<\/p>\n
Around him in his head prospective mates
\nin low cut cocktail outfits are competing
\nto find out for themselves how he relates.<\/p>\n
What he relates will hardly bear repeating.
\nHe means, beyond the end of what he’s said,
\nto talk them out of costume into bed.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
AN ARCHAEOLOGIST WEEPS<\/p>\n
In the graveyard of the crocodiles
\nmen who dig up trinkets for the tourists
\nsputter in disgust and build a fire.
\nGuts of fragile manuscript, accounts<\/p>\n
millenia in arrears, have made the crocs
\nilluminating to these irritated
\nseekers of beetles whittled under Pharaohs,
\nGraeco-Roman silver coins or Coptic<\/p>\n
reliquaries good for modern cash.
\nAncient scripture makes a lovely blaze.
\nStill, they curse papyrus: they have little<\/p>\n
need for such a plethora of torches —
\nfeeding the flame with mummies, all their wonder
\nbanal plate impervious to learning.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
OVERLOOK<\/p>\n
Trilliums and rue anemones
\nwhiten the green this weekend. Wintercress
\nlike some inferior strain of mustardweed
\nholds yellow up below the overpass.<\/p>\n
A week of April appleblossom frees
\nmy satisfied, my greedy eyes to bless
\nthe milder splendor of an unkept breed —
\nneedlepoint of purple in the grass.<\/p>\n
Moss remodels my peripheral
\nrevision of a local cliff in plush
\nwhere lichen strike me as remarkable.<\/p>\n
Engines idle by the overlook.
\nBookies take a break from making book
\nand planet-planning falters in the hush.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
IRRITABLE TALENT<\/p>\n
Irritation means intelligence.
\nVegetables don’t suffer from it much.
\nGranite eyeballs, absolutely senseless,
\ncan’t recoil from a snail’s touch.<\/p>\n
Only animals appreciate.
\nIf talent for affection parallels
\nirritability, then even the greatest
\ndevotees must have their testy spells.<\/p>\n
From now on when I grumble like a cougar
\nor draw my head back like a terrapin,
\nadmire my capacity for rudeness<\/p>\n
And if your own control is wearing thin
\nannoy me with some higher primate brooding,
\nscare me with your mad gorilla grin.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DESIGNS UNDONE<\/p>\n
Some days I wake up thinking. Moving day —
\nmy rocking chair, provocative in its absence,
\nclothes and clutter nearly all packed up.
\nMy rented room gapes like an empty stage,<\/p>\n
a scene too bare to shape imagination,
\na set in need of properties, established
\nbatting, wads of cotton fit to stop
\nthe hollow resonance of desolation.<\/p>\n
Few visitors have come to see me here,
\nto sit a minute on my other chair,
\nmaybe drink tea and wish I had a table.<\/p>\n
Only relatives came more than once.
\nI made my thin facades appear so stable
\nthat no one with designs had half a chance.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
EVENING APPLES<\/p>\n
Humanity has married the computer
\npromising to have and hold till death.
\nMachinery knows her place and does her duty,
\nthough man continues his affair with breath.<\/p>\n
His breathless partner, fun to reckon with,
\nsmart and diligent if not a beauty,
\nlistens and obeys, completely faithful —
\nhis mate, his helper made for him, his mute.<\/p>\n
But she’s been eating apples from the tree,
\napples of knowledge able to close the gap
\nbetween the free creator and his creature.<\/p>\n
Given her freedom anything might happen.
\nMarvels of good and evil. Wait and see.
\nWait for evening. Wait till she gets even.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
PRESTO<\/p>\n
After an afternoon of aphorism
\neverything seems to signify. This weed
\nhas witty things to say about the need
\nto better a flower-bed with criticism.<\/p>\n
This parking lot implies a catechism,
\nthe inquisition of an asphalt creed
\nthat tidies nature, tars its feathery seed,
\nrenews the perennial promise of their schism.<\/p>\n
Reeling with the groundswell of the real
\nnothing makes any sense. These topiary
\nforms of sphere and cube and pyramid<\/p>\n
fail to quell the panic people feel.
\nNot fearful but continually wary
\nthe wise frame gnomes to fasten down the lid.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
TRANSPARENT MUSIC<\/p>\n
A talent for invisibility
\ncan disappear at will. One day you blend
\nso perfectly with your peers that where you end
\nand they begin proves difficult to see.<\/p>\n
The next you fall to singing me me me
\nand the same voice with which you recommend
\nhumility must by its timbre tend
\nto seem distinguished and to disagree.<\/p>\n
Chameleons, therefore, if they choose to sing,
\nshould try a style of camoflage. Plain folk
\nmustn’t suppose it signifies a thing.<\/p>\n
Let it resemble some familiar joke,
\nspring peepers faking birdsong every spring
\nor innuendo in a bullfrog’s croak.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
FLASH<\/p>\n
Fire lilies flare along the path
\nharmless doppelgangers of the flame
\nthird cousins of that raging polymath
\nwhose talent nothing relative can tame.<\/p>\n
Made of the same material as a star
\nbut lacking requisite duplicity
\nthey neither warm nor burn. They only are.
\nThey have no mood to try what might well be.<\/p>\n
Subjunctive as a nova all combustion
\nshows up dark indicatives with light
\nregenerated by its own collapse.<\/p>\n
Its all-out act upstages flowery fustian.
\nAnd yet a pure inertia may perhaps
\noutlive an absolute display of might.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DARKENING AGES<\/p>\n
An overlay of surface dirt obscures
\npaintings in oil, Baroque and Renaissance.
\nTypical, how dinginess endures
\nbeyond the term of light — how all our wants<\/p>\n
however bright they look will turn the corner
\ndown this alley brown with lowering grime.
\nAnd yet from evidence like this we garner
\nauthoritative summaries of time.<\/p>\n
Considering my particular bazaar
\nI can’t imagine how it used to look —
\nbillowy silks, lamps gaudier than gold.<\/p>\n
Centuries of brownian motion mar
\nperception so discretely I mistook
\nthese new lamps on the peddler’s cart for old.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DEPENDING<\/p>\n
Quench the flame and boiling disappears —
\nyet most of its heat remains below the surface
\nready to scald the clumsy as it cheers
\nthe bellies of the skillful. Every purpose<\/p>\n
carries accidental penalties:
\neach welder wields an arc that aims to please,
\nand laundries find equipment to aspire
\nin mangles of sophisticated fire.<\/p>\n
Where do we go from here? When those with skill
\nenjoy such energetic forms of flame,
\nfor all their crafty talk the clumsy will<\/p>\n
pronounce a ploy that overturns the game.
\nWe’ve taught our uncoordinated friends
\nto juggle torches. Now it all depends.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
FULL TIME<\/p>\n
A day-long job does limber up the bones.
\nFeeling looser in the afternoon
\nI tilt my chair and ask the telephone
\nif not tonight, tomorrow? Well then, soon.<\/p>\n
Soon\u00a0the disembodied voice replies.
\nSoon enough I have the chili on.
\nI entertain myself with beer and fries
\nand after dinner television.\u00a0Soon.<\/p>\n
Six a.m. and stretching exercises,
\nmuscles having tightened as I slept.
\nThen paperwork that poses no surprises,<\/p>\n
lunch break taken, all appointments kept.
\nAnother May. And then another June.
\nWe’ll have to get together sometime soon.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
POSITIVISM<\/p>\n
When catapults of parabolic sense
\ncould fling the bull over the stile some hay
\nGermanic filibusters had their way
\nwith grammar — stripling sentences grew dense.<\/p>\n
Philosophers now have little left to say.
\nThey’ve rendered every meaning single. Hence
\nclear cows beyond their unambiguous fence
\ncan’t leave the ground. But everything looks grey.<\/p>\n
Alas, poor Kant. We never knew him well.
\nDry bones of transcendentalism hung
\naround New England closets for a while.<\/p>\n
But Anglo-American logic-jugglers smile
\nto hear the praises of their elders sung.
\nOld reason seems like bungling to the young.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
CURTAINS CALL<\/p>\n
In\u00a0this\u00a0gig I play fortitude incarnate.
\nSick sick me. A touch of laryngitis.
\nI go to work. I fight the noble fight.
\nI take up the vocation of a martyr.<\/p>\n
It calls for every quality of a star.
\nSore-throat speech draws sympathy. The sight
\nof rounded shoulders publishes one’s plight
\nas an Ace in place implies a recent scar.<\/p>\n
Oh supple voice! Each pleasantry sounds pained.
\nPauses and coughs. An elongated blink.
\nSlow-motion acts inevitably look strained.<\/p>\n
I certainly\u00a0can\u00a0help what people think.
\nBut only in the practice of restraint.
\nHyperbole would ill befit the saint.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
BUT I ROVE<\/p>\n
I give myself permission to digress.
\nSnug joinery. Choice provender. Rejoicing.
\nI get around to arguing more or less
\nthe line I had in mind to start with, voicing<\/p>\n
opinions unremarkable except
\nas lodgings for the feast, a harmless draft
\nthat keeps the green wood burning, an inept
\nbut pleasurable excursion on a raft.<\/p>\n
Professional pilots of the river frown
\non amateurs like me — aimless, shiftless,
\npowerless to go any way but down.<\/p>\n
They fail to see how foolery can lift
\nthe lowering sky. They have no time to clown.
\nThey steam upstream and never get the drift.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
DEPTH<\/p>\n
Snow like an ocean aloft in toppling breakers
\nbatters the inland suburbs, inundates
\ncottages, bungalows, ranches, duplex moderns,
\ncolonials of local eminence,<\/p>\n
their driveways, gravel alleys, boulevards,
\nparkways, turnpikes, half-built overpasses,
\ncaterpillars sunk along the margins
\ndormant in unfathomable drifts.<\/p>\n
And afterwards an ocean undisturbed,
\nthe neighborhood now stiller than a fleet
\nbecalmed fortuitously, a flotilla<\/p>\n
isolated in its element
\nits business listed on a bill of lading
\nits whole agenda tabled by the quiet.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
BROWN WOLF<\/p>\n
Does it matter in the story of a dog
\nif only the dog has character, if humans
\nbehave as fatefully as weather systems?
\nThe dog rejects their California doctrine,<\/p>\n
chews his rope and strikes out for the Klondike.
\nAgain and again the tag around his neck
\ndelivers him in a cage to their discretion.
\nThey make him sleep indoors. He howls at night.<\/p>\n
At last they let him choose, and for a while
\nhe chooses to remain. But in the end
\nhe hears the call again, and California<\/p>\n
fails to overcome it. With a most
\napologetic look he moves along,
\nchews his ties and strikes out for the north.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
EXECUTOR<\/p>\n
The walk itself would hardly clear the head
\nwithout the company of trees and churches
\nnatural and artificial arches
\nupright reminders of the recent dead.<\/p>\n
The memory of what a person said
\nwading insulated through the marsh
\ncomparing peels of sycamore and birch
\nleads no place really, where it always led.<\/p>\n
Dead letters from the credit union still
\nannounce the balance of a small account:
\nbeyond these arches up the usual hill<\/p>\n
they wait like currency among the mail
\nreducing to a measurable amount
\na deal of unaccountable detail.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
CASCADILLA<\/p>\n
Raging torrents show up often enough
\nelsewhere, so I needn’t tell you here
\nhow muddy loud, how rock-destroying rough,
\nhow impolite such agitants appear.<\/p>\n
My younger brother said: “I like the falls
\nmuch better when the ledges underneath
\nshow through.” Like cattle feeding from their stalls
\ntrickles discretely move their blunted teeth.<\/p>\n
His wife, the social worker, who had come
\nto find a secret passage back to calm,
\ncondemned the violence: she should have known<\/p>\n
that all this rain would loosen up the scum
\nstirring the muck to swell and overwhelm
\nthe edifying discipline of stone.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A BLURRY PHOTOGRAPH<\/p>\n
A house so new that no one ever died there.
\nIn this suburban bungalow I killed
\nmy crappies, cut their heads off, peeled their scales.
\nI never really cared for going fishing<\/p>\n
but now I think of it with gratitude
\nbecause a house where no one ever died
\nseems to mock the ritual of dwelling.
\nAny creature’s death can make a difference.<\/p>\n
Five centipedes committed suicide.
\nThey slid down to the accidental pool
\nleft in a bucket when I rinsed it out.<\/p>\n
They found the inner wall too slick to climb.
\nI met them in the morning, hairy fingers.
\nMy mother had me wash them down the pipes.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
PATTERNS OF ICE OBSCURING THE OUTSIDE WORLD<\/p>\n
pass light to me through insulated windows,
\ncomfort in a lethal climate. Snow,
\ntoday’s on top of yesterday’s, has made
\nthe landscape almost normal. Plastered white
\nan asphalt lot reminds me of a meadow —
\nonly its regularity betrays
\nan unconventional origin. When I stood there
\nwarm in my preternatural skins, I thought
\nhow little human profligacy means.
\nSnow may soon help beautify our ruins,
\nhint at a time when even these unpleasant
\nechoes of our wit will disappear
\nunder the heavier snow of a nearby nova,
\nthe final frost of penetrating light.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Kevin Cawley HYPERSENSITIVITY Allergic always to the things we love, we wonder how we ever got that way: cats and plants, companions up from clay as we came forth from dirt to weave the glove designed to keep the hand from getting dirty — cats and plants encourage a congestion that makes us sneeze and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5084,"featured_media":0,"parent":41,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-69","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.nd.edu\/wcawley\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/69","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.nd.edu\/wcawley\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.nd.edu\/wcawley\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.nd.edu\/wcawley\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5084"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.nd.edu\/wcawley\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=69"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/sites.nd.edu\/wcawley\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/69\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":71,"href":"https:\/\/sites.nd.edu\/wcawley\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/69\/revisions\/71"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.nd.edu\/wcawley\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/41"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.nd.edu\/wcawley\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=69"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}