Fix #5: Verse typesetting

Thanks to the pandoc-discussion thread at
<https://groups.google.com/forum/#!topic/pandoc-discuss/_JnTJnsSK3k>,
line breaks in verse have been converted to <span class="line">s,
which enables the CSS to style them with hanging indents, given
a too-small viewport.  This commit also includes a makefile edit to
reflect this change, and the Haskell source and executable of the
pandoc filter.

77 files changed, 301 insertions, 270 deletions

@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Whenever you call me friend<br />I fall down on my knees and cry<br />because I know it’s the only thing<br />never to happen before in this<br />life is something you can’t see<br />it’s a pillow under a <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">hook shot</a><br /><a href="lovesong.html">I want to tell you something anything</a><br />but you are there and I am here<br />we are <a href="howtoread.html">trapped inside ourselves</a><br />and the distance is too far<br />you are something that I would tell<br /><a href="no-nothing.html">would be nothing</a> before too long<br />you are not the finisher of dreams<br />you are the beginning of <a href="in-bed.html">nightmares</a><br />or waking but I’m not sure which<br />this <a href="poetry-time.html">letter is for you</a> in the future<br />it will lead you on the path<br />of goodness or of rightness or of<br />wrong people and right meanings<br />or the meaning will be hidden<br />or wrestling the demon I will have become<br />restless under the starlight<br />it’s too bright here to think<br />the negatives would be pitch black<br />darkness of a silver mine<br />there are <a href="plant.html">no trees</a> here<br />where have you been where are you now<br />I am no longer here or there<br />you are anywhere or are you<br />up in the clouds is a ghost<br />he is white and blue like a cloud<br />he paints with his teeth<br />he paints the rainbow before midnight<br />that you can see from your window<br />staring out under the sunlight<br />through the gauze curtains<br /><a href="mountain.html">over the high mountain</a> far away<br />that is covered over with snow<br />past the rivers and forests<br />that lie awake under Orion<br />hunting the bull that runs forever<br />just out of his reach<br />pointing the way for the two of us<br />to join together in song or dance<br />or that other thing and sing<br />the Grinch down off Mount Crumpet<br /><a href="moon-drowning.html">his heart breaking his chest</a><br />thumping with the beat<br />his <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUpxmlZ2hyM">little dog too</a> running running<br />with the bull full of laughter and blood<br />he can’t see it anymore because it’s become him<br />we are trapped he says we are<br />trapped in ourselves it turns out<br />that all along it wasn’t you or me<br />but he and her or her and him or<br />he and he or she and she or they<br />even they tell us that nothing has happened<br />even they know that it’s a big joke<br />one more thing to know before the death<br />we are crying like crocodiles<br />before their loved ones’ coffins<br />we are bellowing with grief like buffalo<br />on a berth of wild oxen<br />we are wailing our clothes are in rags<br /><a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">we want</a> <a href="fire.html">we want</a> <a href="lovesong.html">we want</a><br />but never can we get<br />what is it<br />we don’t know what it is<br />but it’s something it’s anything<br />it’s too many people or not enough<br />it’s too few trees we need more<br />beavers to build riverdams we need<br />grapes too or <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/245576">plums</a> from the ice box<br />or an ice box even would be nice<br />all I have is this cube isn’t that right<br />or is a sphere a cube a donut a coffee<br />cup your hands in mine yes that’s right<br />now bring the water to your face<br />clear and cool and<br />full of something<br />what is it wanting<br />or yearning<br />I can see in your eyes they’re clear now<br />they are as clear as a running stream<br />or the sky that’s clear right<br />or the water that is in the Bahamas<br />because I hear that’s clear<br />you’re as clear as the sound of a bell<br />you’re as clear as the <a href="table_contents.html">braying of horses</a><br />you’re as clear as the glass in God’s eye<br />and I<br />I’m as dull as an ox plowing<br /><a href="last-passenger.html">through fields in his yoke</a><br />I’m as dull as clouded amber<br />I’m dull as you find me<br />tonight after dinner<br />I’m reading the crossword<br />you’re sitting beside me<br />you’re watching TV.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Whenever you call me friend</span><span class="line">I fall down on my knees and cry</span><span class="line">because I know it’s the only thing</span><span class="line">never to happen before in this</span><span class="line">life is something you can’t see</span><span class="line">it’s a pillow under a <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">hook shot</a></span><span class="line"><a href="lovesong.html">I want to tell you something anything</a></span><span class="line">but you are there and I am here</span><span class="line">we are <a href="howtoread.html">trapped inside ourselves</a></span><span class="line">and the distance is too far</span><span class="line">you are something that I would tell</span><span class="line"><a href="no-nothing.html">would be nothing</a> before too long</span><span class="line">you are not the finisher of dreams</span><span class="line">you are the beginning of <a href="in-bed.html">nightmares</a></span><span class="line">or waking but I’m not sure which</span><span class="line">this <a href="poetry-time.html">letter is for you</a> in the future</span><span class="line">it will lead you on the path</span><span class="line">of goodness or of rightness or of</span><span class="line">wrong people and right meanings</span><span class="line">or the meaning will be hidden</span><span class="line">or wrestling the demon I will have become</span><span class="line">restless under the starlight</span><span class="line">it’s too bright here to think</span><span class="line">the negatives would be pitch black</span><span class="line">darkness of a silver mine</span><span class="line">there are <a href="plant.html">no trees</a> here</span><span class="line">where have you been where are you now</span><span class="line">I am no longer here or there</span><span class="line">you are anywhere or are you</span><span class="line">up in the clouds is a ghost</span><span class="line">he is white and blue like a cloud</span><span class="line">he paints with his teeth</span><span class="line">he paints the rainbow before midnight</span><span class="line">that you can see from your window</span><span class="line">staring out under the sunlight</span><span class="line">through the gauze curtains</span><span class="line"><a href="mountain.html">over the high mountain</a> far away</span><span class="line">that is covered over with snow</span><span class="line">past the rivers and forests</span><span class="line">that lie awake under Orion</span><span class="line">hunting the bull that runs forever</span><span class="line">just out of his reach</span><span class="line">pointing the way for the two of us</span><span class="line">to join together in song or dance</span><span class="line">or that other thing and sing</span><span class="line">the Grinch down off Mount Crumpet</span><span class="line"><a href="moon-drowning.html">his heart breaking his chest</a></span><span class="line">thumping with the beat</span><span class="line">his <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUpxmlZ2hyM">little dog too</a> running running</span><span class="line">with the bull full of laughter and blood</span><span class="line">he can’t see it anymore because it’s become him</span><span class="line">we are trapped he says we are</span><span class="line">trapped in ourselves it turns out</span><span class="line">that all along it wasn’t you or me</span><span class="line">but he and her or her and him or</span><span class="line">he and he or she and she or they</span><span class="line">even they tell us that nothing has happened</span><span class="line">even they know that it’s a big joke</span><span class="line">one more thing to know before the death</span><span class="line">we are crying like crocodiles</span><span class="line">before their loved ones’ coffins</span><span class="line">we are bellowing with grief like buffalo</span><span class="line">on a berth of wild oxen</span><span class="line">we are wailing our clothes are in rags</span><span class="line"><a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">we want</a> <a href="fire.html">we want</a> <a href="lovesong.html">we want</a></span><span class="line">but never can we get</span><span class="line">what is it</span><span class="line">we don’t know what it is</span><span class="line">but it’s something it’s anything</span><span class="line">it’s too many people or not enough</span><span class="line">it’s too few trees we need more</span><span class="line">beavers to build riverdams we need</span><span class="line">grapes too or <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/245576">plums</a> from the ice box</span><span class="line">or an ice box even would be nice</span><span class="line">all I have is this cube isn’t that right</span><span class="line">or is a sphere a cube a donut a coffee</span><span class="line">cup your hands in mine yes that’s right</span><span class="line">now bring the water to your face</span><span class="line">clear and cool and</span><span class="line">full of something</span><span class="line">what is it wanting</span><span class="line">or yearning</span><span class="line">I can see in your eyes they’re clear now</span><span class="line">they are as clear as a running stream</span><span class="line">or the sky that’s clear right</span><span class="line">or the water that is in the Bahamas</span><span class="line">because I hear that’s clear</span><span class="line">you’re as clear as the sound of a bell</span><span class="line">you’re as clear as the <a href="table_contents.html">braying of horses</a></span><span class="line">you’re as clear as the glass in God’s eye</span><span class="line">and I</span><span class="line">I’m as dull as an ox plowing</span><span class="line"><a href="last-passenger.html">through fields in his yoke</a></span><span class="line">I’m as dull as clouded amber</span><span class="line">I’m dull as you find me</span><span class="line">tonight after dinner</span><span class="line">I’m reading the crossword</span><span class="line">you’re sitting beside me</span><span class="line">you’re watching TV.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -43,8 +43,8 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>And you were there in the start of it all<br />and you folded your <a href="cold-wind.html">hands like little doves</a><br />that would fly away like an afterthought<br />and you turned to me the window light on your face<br />and you asked me something that I did not recognize<br />like a great throng of people who are not you<br />and I asked are we in a <a href="boar.html">church</a><br />and you answered with the look on your face<br />of someone <a href="roughgloves.html">grieving something gone</a> for years<br />but that they had been reminded of<br />by a catch in the light or in someone’s voice<br />and I think maybe it could have been mine<br />and I looked away thickly my head was in jelly<br />and I didn’t get an answer from you but I got one</p>
-            <p>I looked at the man in front of us with glasses<br />he was speaking and holding a book<br />and I didn’t understand him he was far away<br />and I could tell I was missing something important<br />and you nodded to yourself at something he said</p>
+            <p><span class="line">And you were there in the start of it all</span><span class="line">and you folded your <a href="cold-wind.html">hands like little doves</a></span><span class="line">that would fly away like an afterthought</span><span class="line">and you turned to me the window light on your face</span><span class="line">and you asked me something that I did not recognize</span><span class="line">like a great throng of people who are not you</span><span class="line">and I asked are we in a <a href="boar.html">church</a></span><span class="line">and you answered with the look on your face</span><span class="line">of someone <a href="roughgloves.html">grieving something gone</a> for years</span><span class="line">but that they had been reminded of</span><span class="line">by a catch in the light or in someone’s voice</span><span class="line">and I think maybe it could have been mine</span><span class="line">and I looked away thickly my head was in jelly</span><span class="line">and I didn’t get an answer from you but I got one</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I looked at the man in front of us with glasses</span><span class="line">he was speaking and holding a book</span><span class="line">and I didn’t understand him he was far away</span><span class="line">and I could tell I was missing something important</span><span class="line">and you nodded to yourself at something he said</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,10 +36,10 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Abraham, Abraham, you are old and cannot hear:<br />what if you miss my small voice amongst the creaking<br />of your own grief, kill your son unknowing<br />of what he will be, and commit Israel to nothing?</p>
-            <p>Abraham, you must know or hope that <a href="boar.html">God</a><br />will not allow your son to die; you must know<br />that this is a test, but then why<br />are you so bent on Isaac’s destruction?<br />Look at your eyes; there is more than fear<br />there. I see in your eyes desperation,<br />a manic passion to do right by your God<br />whom you are not able to see or know.</p>
-            <p>Am I too late? I <a href="i-am.html">will try</a> to stay<br />your old hands, the knife clenched<br />within them, intent on ending life.</p>
-            <p>Will you hear my small voice amongst the creaking,<br />or will it be the chance bleating of a passing ram?</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Abraham, Abraham, you are old and cannot hear:</span><span class="line">what if you miss my small voice amongst the creaking</span><span class="line">of your own grief, kill your son unknowing</span><span class="line">of what he will be, and commit Israel to nothing?</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Abraham, you must know or hope that <a href="boar.html">God</a></span><span class="line">will not allow your son to die; you must know</span><span class="line">that this is a test, but then why</span><span class="line">are you so bent on Isaac’s destruction?</span><span class="line">Look at your eyes; there is more than fear</span><span class="line">there. I see in your eyes desperation,</span><span class="line">a manic passion to do right by your God</span><span class="line">whom you are not able to see or know.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Am I too late? I <a href="i-am.html">will try</a> to stay</span><span class="line">your old hands, the knife clenched</span><span class="line">within them, intent on ending life.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Will you hear my small voice amongst the creaking,</span><span class="line">or will it be the chance bleating of a passing ram?</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -44,12 +44,12 @@
                         </div>
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>So it’s the <a href="deathstrumpet.html">fucking moon</a>. Big deal. As if<br />you haven’t seen it before, hanging in the sky<br />like a piece of <a href="roughgloves.html">rotten meat</a> nailed to the wall,</p>
-            <p>a maudlin love letter (the i’s dotted with <a href="proverbs.html">hearts</a>)<br />tacked to the sky’s door like ninety-eight theses.<br />Don’t stare at it like it means anything.</p>
-            <p>Don’t give it the chance to collect meaning<br />from your hand like an old pigeon. Don’t dare ascribe<br />it a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say</p>
-            <p>in your affairs. It’s separated from your life<br />by three hundred eighty-four thousand miles of space,<br />the same distance you stepped away from time that night</p>
-            <p>you said your love was broken, a crippled gyroscope<br />knocking in the dark. It was then that time fell apart,<br />had a nervous breakdown and started following you</p>
-            <p>everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you’re going.<br />You keep trying to get away from it but it nuzzles closer<br />and sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dove<br />that will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">So it’s the <a href="deathstrumpet.html">fucking moon</a>. Big deal. As if</span><span class="line">you haven’t seen it before, hanging in the sky</span><span class="line">like a piece of <a href="roughgloves.html">rotten meat</a> nailed to the wall,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">a maudlin love letter (the i’s dotted with <a href="proverbs.html">hearts</a>)</span><span class="line">tacked to the sky’s door like ninety-eight theses.</span><span class="line">Don’t stare at it like it means anything.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Don’t give it the chance to collect meaning</span><span class="line">from your hand like an old pigeon. Don’t dare ascribe</span><span class="line">it a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">in your affairs. It’s separated from your life</span><span class="line">by three hundred eighty-four thousand miles of space,</span><span class="line">the same distance you stepped away from time that night</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">you said your love was broken, a crippled gyroscope</span><span class="line">knocking in the dark. It was then that time fell apart,</span><span class="line">had a nervous breakdown and started following you</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you’re going.</span><span class="line">You keep trying to get away from it but it nuzzles closer</span><span class="line">and sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dove</span><span class="line">that will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,9 +36,9 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>After searching for days or even months<br />I finally find it reclining lazily<br /><a href="finding-the-lion.html">above the peaks</a> above the city as if to ask<br />Did you miss me? Yes very much I reply<br />and rush to embrace it but it smiles<br />and recoils and tells me No no you<br />have to try harder than that it says<br />I do not give myself up so easily</p>
-            <p>I try a different tack<br />I sing to it bring it flowers nightly<br />I compare its eyes to the morning dew<br />it has not seen the morning dew<br />I say its mouth is the sunset over mountains<br />it knows mountains but the sunset<br />is only a rumor from the Evening Star<br />I tell the Big Dipper that it moves<br /><a href="no-nothing.html">like a quiet river across the earth</a></p>
-            <p>Rivers I have seen says the Big Dipper<br />they sparkle in the light from my stars<br />Your stars like eyes I say and it smiles<br /><a href="http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/writer">No it says that is too easy</a><br />It turns its back<br />it walks home along the back of the mountain</p>
+            <p><span class="line">After searching for days or even months</span><span class="line">I finally find it reclining lazily</span><span class="line"><a href="finding-the-lion.html">above the peaks</a> above the city as if to ask</span><span class="line">Did you miss me? Yes very much I reply</span><span class="line">and rush to embrace it but it smiles</span><span class="line">and recoils and tells me No no you</span><span class="line">have to try harder than that it says</span><span class="line">I do not give myself up so easily</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I try a different tack</span><span class="line">I sing to it bring it flowers nightly</span><span class="line">I compare its eyes to the morning dew</span><span class="line">it has not seen the morning dew</span><span class="line">I say its mouth is the sunset over mountains</span><span class="line">it knows mountains but the sunset</span><span class="line">is only a rumor from the Evening Star</span><span class="line">I tell the Big Dipper that it moves</span><span class="line"><a href="no-nothing.html">like a quiet river across the earth</a></span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Rivers I have seen says the Big Dipper</span><span class="line">they sparkle in the light from my stars</span><span class="line">Your stars like eyes I say and it smiles</span><span class="line"><a href="http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/writer">No it says that is too easy</a></span><span class="line">It turns its back</span><span class="line">it walks home along the back of the mountain</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,10 +36,10 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Now the ticking clocks scare me.<br />The <a href="mountain.html">empty</a> rooms, clock towers, belfries;<br />I am terrified by them all.</p>
-            <p>I really used to enjoy going to church,<br />singing in the choir, listening to the sermon.<br />Now the chairs squeal like dying pigs—</p>
-            <p>It was the boar that did it.<br /><a href="telemarketer.html">Fifteen feet</a> from me that night<br />in the grass, rooting for God<br />knows what, finding me instead.</p>
-            <p>I ran, not knowing where or how,<br />not looking for his pursuit of me.<br />I ran to God’s front door, found<br />it locked, found the <a href="i-am.html">house</a> empty</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Now the ticking clocks scare me.</span><span class="line">The <a href="mountain.html">empty</a> rooms, clock towers, belfries;</span><span class="line">I am terrified by them all.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I really used to enjoy going to church,</span><span class="line">singing in the choir, listening to the sermon.</span><span class="line">Now the chairs squeal like dying pigs—</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">It was the boar that did it.</span><span class="line"><a href="telemarketer.html">Fifteen feet</a> from me that night</span><span class="line">in the grass, rooting for God</span><span class="line">knows what, finding me instead.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I ran, not knowing where or how,</span><span class="line">not looking for his pursuit of me.</span><span class="line">I ran to God’s front door, found</span><span class="line">it locked, found the <a href="i-am.html">house</a> empty</span></p>
             <p>with a note saying, “Condemned.”</p>
         </section>
     </article>
@@ -36,10 +36,10 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>When he said <a href="mountain.html">Bible</a> I heard his southern accent<br />and he had a face I expect all pastors must have<br />a round open honest face<br />that will always be a boy’s face<br />though its owner may rightly call himself a man<br />near my age though I hardly call myself a man</p>
-            <p>I have seen this face before whether in life or a dream<br />I can’t tell<br />I might’ve seen him on the street once<br />twice who knows and his pastor’s <a href="moon-drowning.html">moon face</a><br />reminds me of something<br />some distant light my life used to own</p>
-            <p><a href="in-bed.html">One night on my birthday the moon was so strong it cast shadows</a><br />I could see to the far hill and back it was all clear to me</p>
-            <p>The moon hasn’t done that in a long time<br /><a href="moongone.html">its face has been obscured by clouds</a> for weeks<br />and that boy on the bus his face I’ve forgotten<br />I thought I recognized a good number of people<br />on that bus who I didn’t know at all</p>
+            <p><span class="line">When he said <a href="mountain.html">Bible</a> I heard his southern accent</span><span class="line">and he had a face I expect all pastors must have</span><span class="line">a round open honest face</span><span class="line">that will always be a boy’s face</span><span class="line">though its owner may rightly call himself a man</span><span class="line">near my age though I hardly call myself a man</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I have seen this face before whether in life or a dream</span><span class="line">I can’t tell</span><span class="line">I might’ve seen him on the street once</span><span class="line">twice who knows and his pastor’s <a href="moon-drowning.html">moon face</a></span><span class="line">reminds me of something</span><span class="line">some distant light my life used to own</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="in-bed.html">One night on my birthday the moon was so strong it cast shadows</a></span><span class="line">I could see to the far hill and back it was all clear to me</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">The moon hasn’t done that in a long time</span><span class="line"><a href="moongone.html">its face has been obscured by clouds</a> for weeks</span><span class="line">and that boy on the bus his face I’ve forgotten</span><span class="line">I thought I recognized a good number of people</span><span class="line">on that bus who I didn’t know at all</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
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@@ -41,11 +41,11 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Like <em>40</em> as I challenge anyone to come too!<br />It’s like you’re the epitome of lame!<br />She’s all <em>I am SOOOO CONFUSED</em><br />Aw yeah she got <a href="roughgloves.html">word from yarn</a>.<br />—but technically it’s a pretty sweet, huh?</p>
-            <p>Dude we were going and delicate fragrance of arguments get based off of are not try<br />dropping glasses in such an emotional rollercoaster you<br />and yes, I’m cocky enough to do anything!<br />I am as good as Phineas and make another picture symphony<br />This is a modification of a young woman to try<br />groups disband after they get your <a href="http://www.meachamwriters.org/index.htm">Meacham stuff</a> please let it<br />RJ Covino, own statuses that’ll be a great</p>
-            <p>MY OWN afterbirth can do that<br /><a href="spittle.html">I am 2 we can be KISSED</a> ON THE page.<br />You know I’m not sure that<br />Ben &amp; Jerry’s FTW<br />4/10 would not be able to vote, because I gotta do it<br />This is going to be sad about what<br />Rush Limbaugh comes forward with sunglasses but at least I wasn’t wearing a messenger bag or skinny jeans!<br />The cooler THAN Facebook<br />Wine is the best.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Like <em>40</em> as I challenge anyone to come too!</span><span class="line">It’s like you’re the epitome of lame!</span><span class="line">She’s all <em>I am SOOOO CONFUSED</em></span><span class="line">Aw yeah she got <a href="roughgloves.html">word from yarn</a>.</span><span class="line">—but technically it’s a pretty sweet, huh?</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Dude we were going and delicate fragrance of arguments get based off of are not try</span><span class="line">dropping glasses in such an emotional rollercoaster you</span><span class="line">and yes, I’m cocky enough to do anything!</span><span class="line">I am as good as Phineas and make another picture symphony</span><span class="line">This is a modification of a young woman to try</span><span class="line">groups disband after they get your <a href="http://www.meachamwriters.org/index.htm">Meacham stuff</a> please let it</span><span class="line">RJ Covino, own statuses that’ll be a great</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">MY OWN afterbirth can do that</span><span class="line"><a href="spittle.html">I am 2 we can be KISSED</a> ON THE page.</span><span class="line">You know I’m not sure that</span><span class="line">Ben &amp; Jerry’s FTW</span><span class="line">4/10 would not be able to vote, because I gotta do it</span><span class="line">This is going to be sad about what</span><span class="line">Rush Limbaugh comes forward with sunglasses but at least I wasn’t wearing a messenger bag or skinny jeans!</span><span class="line">The cooler THAN Facebook</span><span class="line">Wine is the best.</span></p>
             <p>YES I was surprised at first, <a href="http://www.ugcs.caltech.edu/~deepthi/If_on_a_winter%27s_night_a_traveler.html">but the train one</a>, definitely.</p>
-            <p>Also Valhalla is a dumbass…<br />But we can get based off of course, Jon.<br />We watched this<br />CELEBRATE FRANKSGIVING TOO!<br />That didn’t get started on that<br />FRANCIS OF VERULAM REASONED THUS WITH the courage to reply.<br />Anyone wanna watch out<br />I am cranky from Bro a good as a way to <a href="x-ray.html">hijack my hand</a>.<br />Afterbend was not to produce photographs.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Also Valhalla is a dumbass…</span><span class="line">But we can get based off of course, Jon.</span><span class="line">We watched this</span><span class="line">CELEBRATE FRANKSGIVING TOO!</span><span class="line">That didn’t get started on that</span><span class="line">FRANCIS OF VERULAM REASONED THUS WITH the courage to reply.</span><span class="line">Anyone wanna watch out</span><span class="line">I am cranky from Bro a good as a way to <a href="x-ray.html">hijack my hand</a>.</span><span class="line">Afterbend was not to produce photographs.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -38,7 +38,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p><a href="january.html">Man of autumn</a>, cold wind,<br />blow down the trees’ leaves.<br /><a href="fire.html">Fire on the ground</a>. The sky<br />perfect water, frost-cold,<br />rippled only by flocks<br /><a href="i-think-its-you.html">of black birds</a> flying, gone.<br />Their brightness can blind<br />an uncareful watcher, work him<br /><a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">in a froth of hands</a>, not-wings<br />that ache with the loss of flight.<br />A tear is flung faithfully<br /><a href="lappel-du-vide.html">to the ocean of air</a>, slipping in<br />slowly, is as gone as the birds.</p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="january.html">Man of autumn</a>, cold wind,</span><span class="line">blow down the trees’ leaves.</span><span class="line"><a href="fire.html">Fire on the ground</a>. The sky</span><span class="line">perfect water, frost-cold,</span><span class="line">rippled only by flocks</span><span class="line"><a href="i-think-its-you.html">of black birds</a> flying, gone.</span><span class="line">Their brightness can blind</span><span class="line">an uncareful watcher, work him</span><span class="line"><a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">in a froth of hands</a>, not-wings</span><span class="line">that ache with the loss of flight.</span><span class="line">A tear is flung faithfully</span><span class="line"><a href="lappel-du-vide.html">to the ocean of air</a>, slipping in</span><span class="line">slowly, is as gone as the birds.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -38,21 +38,21 @@
         <section class="content verse">
             <p><a href="100-lines.html">100 lines</a> <a href="about-the-author.html">about the author</a>, <a href="about_author.html">Case Duckworth</a> (nee <a href="amber-alert.html">Amber): alert</a>!</p>
             <p><a href="and.html">And</a> <a href="angeltoabraham.html">the angel, to Abraham</a>, <a href="apollo11.html">on seeing the panorama<br />of the Apollo 11 landing site</a>: “<a href="arspoetica.html">Ars poetica</a>: <a href="art.html">art</a>, an <a href="axe.html">axe</a>,<br /><a href="big-dipper.html">the big dipper</a> and <a href="boar.html">the boar</a>. The <a href="boy_bus.html">boy on the bus</a> is <a href="building.html">building</a>.<br /><a href="call-me-aural-pleasure.html">Call me</a> <a href="cereal.html"><em>Cereal</em></a> or <a href="cold-wind.html"><em>Cold Wind</em></a>.<br /><a href="collage-instrumented.html">Instrument</a> a collage.”</p>
-            <p><a href="creation-myth.html">Creation myth</a>: <a href="deadman.html">dead man</a> = <a href="death-zone.html">the death zone</a> =<br /><a href="deathstrumpet.html">Death’s trumpet</a>. <a href="dream.html">Dream</a> <a href="early.html">early</a>.</p>
-            <p><a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">Elegy for an alternate self:</a> an <a href="epigraph.html">epigraph</a>,<br /><a href="ex-machina.html"><em>ex machina</em></a> and <a href="exasperated.html">exasperated</a>; <a href="father.html">Father</a> <a href="feedingtheraven.html">feeding<br />the raven</a>, <a href="finding-the-lion.html">finding the lion</a>, setting a <a href="fire.html">fire</a>.</p>
-            <p><a href="found-typewriter-poem.html">Look</a>: <a href="hands.html">hands</a>-<a href="on-genre-dimension.html">on poetry</a>!<br /><a href="hard-game.html">A hard game</a>: <a href="hardware.html">hardware</a>.<br />(<a href="howithappened.html">How it happened</a>?)<br /> <a href="howtoread.html">How to read this</a> <a href="hymnal.html">hymnal</a>:<br />“<a href="i-am.html">I am</a>.” “<a href="i-think-its-you.html">I think it’s<br />you (but it’s not)</a>.”</p>
-            <p><a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">I wanted to tell you something</a> <a href="in-bed.html">in bed</a>—<br /><a href="i-want-to-say.html">I want to say</a> the <a href="initial-conditions.html">initial conditions</a> of <a href="january.html">January</a>’s <a href="joke.html">joke</a> are <a href="lappel-du-vide.html"><em>l’appel du vide</em></a>.<br /><a href="largest-asteroid.html">The largest asteroid in the asteroid belt</a> is the <a href="last-bastion.html">last bastion</a>,<br />the <a href="last-passenger.html">last passenger</a> <a href="leaf.html">leaf</a>, the <a href="leg.html">leg</a> <a href="likingthings.html">liking things</a>.</p>
-            <p><a href="listen.html">Listen</a>: <a href="love-as-god.html">love as God</a> loves, better<br />than a <a href="lovesong.html">love song</a>, <a href="man.html">man</a>. This is<br />a <a href="manifesto_poetics.html">manifesto</a>.</p>
-            <p><a href="moon-drowning.html">The moon is drowning</a>. <a href="moongone.html">The moon is gone,<br />and in its place: a mirror</a>. <a href="mountain.html">The mountain</a>’s<br /><a href="movingsideways.html">moving sideways</a>, <a href="music-433.html">something about all music<br />being performances of <em>4′33″</em> in places<br />where other bands happen to be playing</a>. Listen:<br /><a href="no-nothing.html">no nothing</a>, no <a href="notes.html">notes</a>, <a href="nothing-is-ever-over.html"><em>nothing</em> is ever over</a>.</p>
-            <p><a href="onformalpoetry.html">On formal poetry</a>, <a href="options.html">options</a>:<br />an <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">ouroboros of memory</a>, <a href="paul.html"><em>Paul</em></a>, <a href="philosophy.html">philosophy</a>,<br /><a href="phone.html">phone</a>s, or <a href="planks.html">planks</a>. A <a href="plant.html">litany for a plant</a>.</p>
-            <p><a href="poetry-time.html">Something about the nature<br />of poetry and time</a>: <a href="prelude.html">prelude</a>, <a href="problems.html">problems</a>, <a href="proverbs.html">proverbs</a>,<br />some <a href="peaches.html">peaches</a>. <a href="punch.html">Punch</a> is <a href="purpose-dogs.html">the purpose of dogs</a>.</p>
-            <p>A <a href="question.html">question</a>: if <a href="real-writer.html">a real writer</a> <a href="reports.html">reports</a> on<br />the <a href="riptide_memory.html">riptide of memory</a>, does <a href="ronaldmcdonald.html">Ronald McDonald</a><br />wear <a href="roughgloves.html">rough gloves</a> or a <a href="sapling.html">sapling</a>?</p>
-            <p><a href="seasonal-affective-disorder.html">Seasonal affective disorder</a> is part of the <a href="sense-of-it.html">sense of it</a>.<br />The <a href="serengeti.html">serengeti</a> is a <a href="shed.html">shed</a>. <a href="shipwright.html">The shipwright</a><br />builds <a href="sixteenth-chapel.html">the sixteenth chapel</a> in <a href="snow.html">snow</a>.</p>
-            <p><a href="something-simple.html">Let’s start with something simple</a>:<br /><a href="spittle.html">spittle</a> on <a href="squirrel.html">the squirrel</a> sitting <a href="stagnant.html">stagnant</a>.<br /><a href="dollywood.html">Something about my tenure as a bear</a>. <a href="statements-frag.html">Statements</a> <a href="stayed-on-the-bus.html">stayed on the bus too long</a>.</p>
-            <p>A <a href="stump.html">stump</a> is not a <a href="swansong-alt.html">swansong</a> is not a <a href="swansong.html"><em>swan</em>, Song</a>.<br /> <a href="swear.html">Swear</a> the <a href="table_contents.html">table of contents</a> is a <a href="tapestry.html">tapestry</a>.<br /><a href="telemarketer.html">Telemarketer</a>s swear that <a href="the-night-we-met.html">the night we met, I<br />was out of my mind</a>.</p>
-            <p><a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">The sea and the beach</a>, even <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">the ocean overflows<br />with camels</a>. <a href="time-looks-up-to-the-sky.html">Time looks up to the sky</a>,<br /><a href="todaniel.html">to Daniel</a> on the <a href="toilet.html">toilet</a> writing “<a href="toothpaste.html">Toothpaste</a>,”<br />a <a href="treatise.html">treatise</a> on <a href="underwear.html">underwear</a> and <a href="wallpaper.html">wallpaper</a>.</p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="creation-myth.html">Creation myth</a>: <a href="deadman.html">dead man</a> = <a href="death-zone.html">the death zone</a> =</span><span class="line"><a href="deathstrumpet.html">Death’s trumpet</a>. <a href="dream.html">Dream</a> <a href="early.html">early</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">Elegy for an alternate self:</a> an <a href="epigraph.html">epigraph</a>,</span><span class="line"><a href="ex-machina.html"><em>ex machina</em></a> and <a href="exasperated.html">exasperated</a>; <a href="father.html">Father</a> <a href="feedingtheraven.html">feeding<br />the raven</a>, <a href="finding-the-lion.html">finding the lion</a>, setting a <a href="fire.html">fire</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="found-typewriter-poem.html">Look</a>: <a href="hands.html">hands</a>-<a href="on-genre-dimension.html">on poetry</a>!</span><span class="line"><a href="hard-game.html">A hard game</a>: <a href="hardware.html">hardware</a>.</span><span class="line">(<a href="howithappened.html">How it happened</a>?)</span><span class="line"> <a href="howtoread.html">How to read this</a> <a href="hymnal.html">hymnal</a>:</span><span class="line">“<a href="i-am.html">I am</a>.” “<a href="i-think-its-you.html">I think it’s<br />you (but it’s not)</a>.”</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">I wanted to tell you something</a> <a href="in-bed.html">in bed</a>—</span><span class="line"><a href="i-want-to-say.html">I want to say</a> the <a href="initial-conditions.html">initial conditions</a> of <a href="january.html">January</a>’s <a href="joke.html">joke</a> are <a href="lappel-du-vide.html"><em>l’appel du vide</em></a>.</span><span class="line"><a href="largest-asteroid.html">The largest asteroid in the asteroid belt</a> is the <a href="last-bastion.html">last bastion</a>,</span><span class="line">the <a href="last-passenger.html">last passenger</a> <a href="leaf.html">leaf</a>, the <a href="leg.html">leg</a> <a href="likingthings.html">liking things</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="listen.html">Listen</a>: <a href="love-as-god.html">love as God</a> loves, better</span><span class="line">than a <a href="lovesong.html">love song</a>, <a href="man.html">man</a>. This is</span><span class="line">a <a href="manifesto_poetics.html">manifesto</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="moon-drowning.html">The moon is drowning</a>. <a href="moongone.html">The moon is gone,<br />and in its place: a mirror</a>. <a href="mountain.html">The mountain</a>’s</span><span class="line"><a href="movingsideways.html">moving sideways</a>, <a href="music-433.html">something about all music<br />being performances of <em>4′33″</em> in places<br />where other bands happen to be playing</a>. Listen:</span><span class="line"><a href="no-nothing.html">no nothing</a>, no <a href="notes.html">notes</a>, <a href="nothing-is-ever-over.html"><em>nothing</em> is ever over</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="onformalpoetry.html">On formal poetry</a>, <a href="options.html">options</a>:</span><span class="line">an <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">ouroboros of memory</a>, <a href="paul.html"><em>Paul</em></a>, <a href="philosophy.html">philosophy</a>,</span><span class="line"><a href="phone.html">phone</a>s, or <a href="planks.html">planks</a>. A <a href="plant.html">litany for a plant</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="poetry-time.html">Something about the nature<br />of poetry and time</a>: <a href="prelude.html">prelude</a>, <a href="problems.html">problems</a>, <a href="proverbs.html">proverbs</a>,</span><span class="line">some <a href="peaches.html">peaches</a>. <a href="punch.html">Punch</a> is <a href="purpose-dogs.html">the purpose of dogs</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">A <a href="question.html">question</a>: if <a href="real-writer.html">a real writer</a> <a href="reports.html">reports</a> on</span><span class="line">the <a href="riptide_memory.html">riptide of memory</a>, does <a href="ronaldmcdonald.html">Ronald McDonald</a></span><span class="line">wear <a href="roughgloves.html">rough gloves</a> or a <a href="sapling.html">sapling</a>?</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="seasonal-affective-disorder.html">Seasonal affective disorder</a> is part of the <a href="sense-of-it.html">sense of it</a>.</span><span class="line">The <a href="serengeti.html">serengeti</a> is a <a href="shed.html">shed</a>. <a href="shipwright.html">The shipwright</a></span><span class="line">builds <a href="sixteenth-chapel.html">the sixteenth chapel</a> in <a href="snow.html">snow</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="something-simple.html">Let’s start with something simple</a>:</span><span class="line"><a href="spittle.html">spittle</a> on <a href="squirrel.html">the squirrel</a> sitting <a href="stagnant.html">stagnant</a>.</span><span class="line"><a href="dollywood.html">Something about my tenure as a bear</a>. <a href="statements-frag.html">Statements</a> <a href="stayed-on-the-bus.html">stayed on the bus too long</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">A <a href="stump.html">stump</a> is not a <a href="swansong-alt.html">swansong</a> is not a <a href="swansong.html"><em>swan</em>, Song</a>.</span><span class="line"> <a href="swear.html">Swear</a> the <a href="table_contents.html">table of contents</a> is a <a href="tapestry.html">tapestry</a>.</span><span class="line"><a href="telemarketer.html">Telemarketer</a>s swear that <a href="the-night-we-met.html">the night we met, I<br />was out of my mind</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">The sea and the beach</a>, even <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">the ocean overflows<br />with camels</a>. <a href="time-looks-up-to-the-sky.html">Time looks up to the sky</a>,</span><span class="line"><a href="todaniel.html">to Daniel</a> on the <a href="toilet.html">toilet</a> writing “<a href="toothpaste.html">Toothpaste</a>,”</span><span class="line">a <a href="treatise.html">treatise</a> on <a href="underwear.html">underwear</a> and <a href="wallpaper.html">wallpaper</a>.</span></p>
             <p><a href="weplayedthosegamestoo.html">We played those games too</a>.</p>
-            <p><a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">When I’m sorry I wash dishes</a> in the <a href="window.html">window</a>, <a href="walking-in-the-rain.html">walking<br />in the rain</a>, thinking<br />about <a href="what-we-are-made-of.html">what we are made of</a>:<br /><a href="words-meaning.html">words and meaning</a>, <a href="words-irritable-reaching.html">irritably reaching after reason</a>. I feel <a href="worse-looking-over.html">worse,<br />looking over</a> at you, than when I’m <a href="writing.html">writing</a><br />an <a href="x-ray.html">x-ray</a> in <a href="yellow.html">yellow</a>.</p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">When I’m sorry I wash dishes</a> in the <a href="window.html">window</a>, <a href="walking-in-the-rain.html">walking<br />in the rain</a>, thinking</span><span class="line">about <a href="what-we-are-made-of.html">what we are made of</a>:</span><span class="line"><a href="words-meaning.html">words and meaning</a>, <a href="words-irritable-reaching.html">irritably reaching after reason</a>. I feel <a href="worse-looking-over.html">worse,<br />looking over</a> at you, than when I’m <a href="writing.html">writing</a></span><span class="line">an <a href="x-ray.html">x-ray</a> in <a href="yellow.html">yellow</a>.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,10 +36,10 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>So two hyperintelligent pandimensional beings<br />walk into a bar. One turns to the other and says,<br />“Did you remember to check the end state<br />of that simulation we were running?” The other<br />says, “No, I thought that you did?” To which<br />the first replies, “<a href="movingsideways.html">Oh shit</a>, we missed it.<br />I suppose we must do all of this again. Barkeep,</p>
-            <p>two beers please.&quot; The bartender nods in that way<br />that bartenders do, pours the two beers,<br />expertly, by the way, just so, and hands them<br />to the first <a href="http://hitchhikers.wikia.com/wiki/Mice">hyperintelligent pandimensional</a> being.<br />The second one pulls a few singles out of his<br />wallet, places them on the bar, and the pair<br />turn around and begin walking toward a table<br />in the middle of the mostly-empty bar. The bar-<br />tender picks up the money, fans it out, frowns,<br />and calls to his patrons’ backs: “Hey, this<br />isn’t enough!” The two turn around simultan-<br />eously, with parity, and stare at him. A beat.</p>
-            <p>One of them, the one without the beer, breaks<br />the silence by exclaiming, “Oh dear god, I’m<br />sorry! I didn’t know your prices went up since<br />last time. What do I owe you?” The bartender<br />says, “Oh, just another <a href="100-lines.html">dollar</a>-fifty.” The being<br />reaches in his back pocket, slides out his<br />wallet, looks in smiling, and frowns when he sees<br />it’s empty. He looks to the other and says,<br />“You got a <a href="plant.html">buck</a>-fifty I can borrow?”</p>
-            <p>The second hyperintelligent pandimensional being<br />considers this. He sets the beers down<br />on the table, pulls out his own wallet, opens<br />it, and frowns. “I’m broke too,” he says.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">So two hyperintelligent pandimensional beings</span><span class="line">walk into a bar. One turns to the other and says,</span><span class="line">“Did you remember to check the end state<br />of that simulation we were running?” The other</span><span class="line">says, “No, I thought that you did?” To which</span><span class="line">the first replies, “<a href="movingsideways.html">Oh shit</a>, we missed it.</span><span class="line">I suppose we must do all of this again. Barkeep,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">two beers please.&quot; The bartender nods in that way</span><span class="line">that bartenders do, pours the two beers,</span><span class="line">expertly, by the way, just so, and hands them</span><span class="line">to the first <a href="http://hitchhikers.wikia.com/wiki/Mice">hyperintelligent pandimensional</a> being.</span><span class="line">The second one pulls a few singles out of his</span><span class="line">wallet, places them on the bar, and the pair</span><span class="line">turn around and begin walking toward a table</span><span class="line">in the middle of the mostly-empty bar. The bar-</span><span class="line">tender picks up the money, fans it out, frowns,</span><span class="line">and calls to his patrons’ backs: “Hey, this<br />isn’t enough!” The two turn around simultan-</span><span class="line">eously, with parity, and stare at him. A beat.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">One of them, the one without the beer, breaks</span><span class="line">the silence by exclaiming, “Oh dear god, I’m<br />sorry! I didn’t know your prices went up since<br />last time. What do I owe you?” The bartender</span><span class="line">says, “Oh, just another <a href="100-lines.html">dollar</a>-fifty.” The being</span><span class="line">reaches in his back pocket, slides out his</span><span class="line">wallet, looks in smiling, and frowns when he sees</span><span class="line">it’s empty. He looks to the other and says,</span><span class="line">“You got a <a href="plant.html">buck</a>-fifty I can borrow?”</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">The second hyperintelligent pandimensional being</span><span class="line">considers this. He sets the beers down</span><span class="line">on the table, pulls out his own wallet, opens</span><span class="line">it, and frowns. “I’m broke too,” he says.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>A dead man finds his way into our <a href="words-meaning.html">hearts</a><br />simply by opening the door and walking in.<br />He pours himself a drink, speaks aimlessly<br />about hunting or some bats he saw<br />on the way over, wheeling around each other.<br />Look how <a href="moongone.html">they spin</a>, he says, it’s like the<br />ripples atoms make as they hurl past each other<br />in the space between their bodies.<br />We mention the eels at the aquarium, how<br />their bodies <a href="spittle.html">knot while mating</a>. The dead man<br />was a boyscout once, and tied a lot of knots.<br />His favorite was the one with the rabbit<br />and the hole, and the rabbit going in and out<br />and around the tree. The dead man liked it<br />because he liked to pretend that the rabbit<br />was running from a fox, and the rabbit<br />always ended up safe, back in his hole.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">A dead man finds his way into our <a href="words-meaning.html">hearts</a></span><span class="line">simply by opening the door and walking in.</span><span class="line">He pours himself a drink, speaks aimlessly</span><span class="line">about hunting or some bats he saw</span><span class="line">on the way over, wheeling around each other.</span><span class="line">Look how <a href="moongone.html">they spin</a>, he says, it’s like the</span><span class="line">ripples atoms make as they hurl past each other</span><span class="line">in the space between their bodies.</span><span class="line">We mention the eels at the aquarium, how</span><span class="line">their bodies <a href="spittle.html">knot while mating</a>. The dead man</span><span class="line">was a boyscout once, and tied a lot of knots.</span><span class="line">His favorite was the one with the rabbit</span><span class="line">and the hole, and the rabbit going in and out</span><span class="line">and around the tree. The dead man liked it</span><span class="line">because he liked to pretend that the rabbit</span><span class="line">was running from a fox, and the rabbit</span><span class="line">always ended up safe, back in his hole.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -50,13 +50,13 @@
                         </div>
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>When I think of death I think<br />of Peter Falk in <em>The Princess Bride</em> patting<br /><a href="creation-myth.html">his pockets</a> as he leaves the room</p>
-            <p>Life is a series of doors or so<br />they say but I ask them this<br />where does that last door lead?</p>
-            <p>For Falk maybe it leads backstage<br />a black-walled catered affair with stage<br />lights slowly baking stale muffins</p>
-            <p><a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">Sweaty cheese</a> leaking onto dried-out<br />grapes a chocolate fountain clogged<br />by some errant strawberry crown</p>
-            <p>but this is not where it leads for you or<br />for me that door opens onto darkness marked<br />only by a trellis or the lid of a casket</p>
-            <p>the door of the <a href="about-the-author.html">earth’s womb</a> opening<br />finally to accept us and with us the dirt<br />not to grow more strawberries for Falk</p>
-            <p>but to pad his feet as he walks overhead<br />to visit someone he certainly cares about<br />but whose name is lost to posterity.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">When I think of death I think</span><span class="line">of Peter Falk in <em>The Princess Bride</em> patting</span><span class="line"><a href="creation-myth.html">his pockets</a> as he leaves the room</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Life is a series of doors or so</span><span class="line">they say but I ask them this</span><span class="line">where does that last door lead?</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">For Falk maybe it leads backstage</span><span class="line">a black-walled catered affair with stage</span><span class="line">lights slowly baking stale muffins</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">Sweaty cheese</a> leaking onto dried-out</span><span class="line">grapes a chocolate fountain clogged</span><span class="line">by some errant strawberry crown</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">but this is not where it leads for you or</span><span class="line">for me that door opens onto darkness marked</span><span class="line">only by a trellis or the lid of a casket</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">the door of the <a href="about-the-author.html">earth’s womb</a> opening</span><span class="line">finally to accept us and with us the dirt</span><span class="line">not to grow more strawberries for Falk</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">but to pad his feet as he walks overhead</span><span class="line">to visit someone he certainly cares about</span><span class="line">but whose name is lost to posterity.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -42,11 +42,11 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,<br />top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine<br />begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.</p>
-            <p>He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining<br />it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized<br />it was a terrible metaphor.<br />He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?</p>
-            <p>Death looks at <a href="moongone.html">himself in the mirror</a> as he plays.<br />The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.<br />Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving<br />but he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.<br />Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.</p>
-            <p>He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.<br />He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy<br />since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.<br />The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.<br />He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,</p>
-            <p>there’s only a <a href="angeltoabraham.html">little boy</a> with dead eyes. So far so good.<br />He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him<br />and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.<br />Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,</span><span class="line">top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine</span><span class="line">begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining</span><span class="line">it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized</span><span class="line">it was a terrible metaphor.</span><span class="line">He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Death looks at <a href="moongone.html">himself in the mirror</a> as he plays.</span><span class="line">The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.</span><span class="line">Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving</span><span class="line">but he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.</span><span class="line">Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.</span><span class="line">He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy</span><span class="line">since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.</span><span class="line">The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.</span><span class="line">He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">there’s only a <a href="angeltoabraham.html">little boy</a> with dead eyes. So far so good.</span><span class="line">He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him</span><span class="line">and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.</span><span class="line">Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,8 +36,8 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Say there are no words. Say that we are conjoined<br />from birth, or better still, say we are myself.<br />—But I still talk to myself, I build my world<br />through language, so if we say there are <a href="hymnal.html">no words</a><br />this is not enough. Say we are instead some animal,<br />or better yet, <a href="plant.html">a plant</a>, or a flagellum motoring<br />aimlessly around. (Say that humans are the only things<br />that reason. Say that we’re the <a href="movingsideways.html">only things that worry</a>.)</p>
-            <p>Say that I am separate. To say there’s everything else<br />and then there’s me is wrong. Each thing is separate:<br /><a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">there is no whole in the world</a>. Say this is both good<br />and bad, or rather, say there is no good or bad but only<br />being, more and more of it always added, none taken out<br />though it can be forgotten. Say that forgetting<br />is a function of our remembering. (Say that humans only<br /><a href="swansong-alt.html">worry about separation</a>. Say that only humans feel it.)</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Say there are no words. Say that we are conjoined</span><span class="line">from birth, or better still, say we are myself.</span><span class="line">—But I still talk to myself, I build my world</span><span class="line">through language, so if we say there are <a href="hymnal.html">no words</a></span><span class="line">this is not enough. Say we are instead some animal,</span><span class="line">or better yet, <a href="plant.html">a plant</a>, or a flagellum motoring</span><span class="line">aimlessly around. (Say that humans are the only things</span><span class="line">that reason. Say that we’re the <a href="movingsideways.html">only things that worry</a>.)</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Say that I am separate. To say there’s everything else</span><span class="line">and then there’s me is wrong. Each thing is separate:</span><span class="line"><a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">there is no whole in the world</a>. Say this is both good</span><span class="line">and bad, or rather, say there is no good or bad but only</span><span class="line">being, more and more of it always added, none taken out</span><span class="line">though it can be forgotten. Say that forgetting</span><span class="line">is a function of our remembering. (Say that humans only</span><span class="line"><a href="swansong-alt.html">worry about separation</a>. Say that only humans feel it.)</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -41,15 +41,15 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Bottom of the drink: they had<br />to go. The Coke machine, the snack<br />machine, the deep fryer. Hoisted</p>
-            <p>and dragged through the halls<br />and out to the curb, they sat with<br />other trash beneath gray, forlorn</p>
-            <p>skies behind the elementary<br />school, wondering what their next<br />move would be. The Coke machine</p>
-            <p>had always wanted to live<br />the life of a <a href="prelude.html">hobo</a>, jumping trains,<br />eating from garbage, making fire</p>
-            <p>in old oil drums. It had some<br />strange romantic notions of being homeless,<br />is what the deep fryer thought.</p>
-            <p>Its opinion was to head to court,<br />sue the bastards at the school for early<br />termination of contract. It was</p>
-            <p>the embodiment of <a href="table_contents.html">justifiable anger</a>.<br />It believed privately that it was an incarnation<br />of Nemesis, the goddess of divine</p>
-            <p>retribution. What the snack machine<br />thought, it kept to itself, but it did say<br />that <a href="no-nothing.html">nothing ever ends</a>. The others</p>
-            <p>were confused, then angry, but finally<br />understood, or thought they did. The snack<br />machine’s candy melted in the sun.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Bottom of the drink: they had</span><span class="line">to go. The Coke machine, the snack</span><span class="line">machine, the deep fryer. Hoisted</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">and dragged through the halls</span><span class="line">and out to the curb, they sat with</span><span class="line">other trash beneath gray, forlorn</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">skies behind the elementary</span><span class="line">school, wondering what their next</span><span class="line">move would be. The Coke machine</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">had always wanted to live</span><span class="line">the life of a <a href="prelude.html">hobo</a>, jumping trains,</span><span class="line">eating from garbage, making fire</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">in old oil drums. It had some</span><span class="line">strange romantic notions of being homeless,</span><span class="line">is what the deep fryer thought.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Its opinion was to head to court,</span><span class="line">sue the bastards at the school for early</span><span class="line">termination of contract. It was</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">the embodiment of <a href="table_contents.html">justifiable anger</a>.</span><span class="line">It believed privately that it was an incarnation</span><span class="line">of Nemesis, the goddess of divine</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">retribution. What the snack machine</span><span class="line">thought, it kept to itself, but it did say</span><span class="line">that <a href="no-nothing.html">nothing ever ends</a>. The others</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">were confused, then angry, but finally</span><span class="line">understood, or thought they did. The snack</span><span class="line">machine’s candy melted in the sun.</span></p>
         </section>
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     <nav>
@@ -36,13 +36,13 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I didn’t write this sestina yesterday.<br />It’s the first time I fell behind in my task<br />and hopefully, the only time it will.<br />This means that today I must write two<br />sestinas. If I don’t write them today, I<br />will have to write two later down the line.</p>
-            <p>Although I feel I’m slogging through each line<br />I think I’m doing better every day,<br />though maybe this is wishful thinking: I<br />showed my friend my just-completed task<br />two days ago (my God, was it two<br />entire days? I’ve no idea what I’ll</p>
-            <p>do <a href="http://biblehub.com/2_corinthians/11-24.htm">after thirty-nine days</a>. I think I’ll<br />feel like <a href="death-zone.html">Inigo Montoya</a>, who’d been in the line<br />of revenging for so long, he didn’t know what to<br />do with the rest of his life), and he deigned<br />to be polite, but I could tell the task<br />was hard for him. He told me finally that I</p>
-            <p>had made a noble effort, but that ultimately I<br />failed. <a href="question.html">So my question</a>: when will<br />I be a decent sestina writer? For this is my task.<br />Maybe if I just keep cranking out line after line<br />I’ll finally figure it out. Maybe one more day<br />or another week will do it, or maybe I’ll need two,</p>
-            <p>or maybe it’ll never happen. Maybe a sestina’s too<br />involved, too much <a href="tapestry.html">weaving</a> of words too fine, and I<br />will never write a good one, even on my best day,<br />even if I employ all my skill and all my will.<br />I’m not used to writing poems with thirty-nine lines,<br />that must be the problem, must be why this task</p>
-            <p>is Herculean. He only had to finish twelve tasks,<br />and I have one less one thousand, five hundred twenty-two,<br />and it’s nothing but complaining lines<br />about <a href="deathstrumpet.html">how hard it is to be a person</a>. I<br />am getting sick of myself with these poems, and will<br />soon be loathe to get out of bed every day.</p>
-            <p>But I tasked myself with this, which may be the worst I<br />ever do to myself. I thought a poem NaNoWriMo would<br />be fun, would line my resume, give me something I could publish someday.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I didn’t write this sestina yesterday.</span><span class="line">It’s the first time I fell behind in my task</span><span class="line">and hopefully, the only time it will.</span><span class="line">This means that today I must write two</span><span class="line">sestinas. If I don’t write them today, I</span><span class="line">will have to write two later down the line.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Although I feel I’m slogging through each line</span><span class="line">I think I’m doing better every day,</span><span class="line">though maybe this is wishful thinking: I</span><span class="line">showed my friend my just-completed task</span><span class="line">two days ago (my God, was it two</span><span class="line">entire days? I’ve no idea what I’ll</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">do <a href="http://biblehub.com/2_corinthians/11-24.htm">after thirty-nine days</a>. I think I’ll</span><span class="line">feel like <a href="death-zone.html">Inigo Montoya</a>, who’d been in the line</span><span class="line">of revenging for so long, he didn’t know what to</span><span class="line">do with the rest of his life), and he deigned</span><span class="line">to be polite, but I could tell the task</span><span class="line">was hard for him. He told me finally that I</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">had made a noble effort, but that ultimately I</span><span class="line">failed. <a href="question.html">So my question</a>: when will</span><span class="line">I be a decent sestina writer? For this is my task.</span><span class="line">Maybe if I just keep cranking out line after line</span><span class="line">I’ll finally figure it out. Maybe one more day</span><span class="line">or another week will do it, or maybe I’ll need two,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">or maybe it’ll never happen. Maybe a sestina’s too</span><span class="line">involved, too much <a href="tapestry.html">weaving</a> of words too fine, and I</span><span class="line">will never write a good one, even on my best day,</span><span class="line">even if I employ all my skill and all my will.</span><span class="line">I’m not used to writing poems with thirty-nine lines,</span><span class="line">that must be the problem, must be why this task</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">is Herculean. He only had to finish twelve tasks,</span><span class="line">and I have one less one thousand, five hundred twenty-two,</span><span class="line">and it’s nothing but complaining lines</span><span class="line">about <a href="deathstrumpet.html">how hard it is to be a person</a>. I</span><span class="line">am getting sick of myself with these poems, and will</span><span class="line">soon be loathe to get out of bed every day.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">But I tasked myself with this, which may be the worst I</span><span class="line">ever do to myself. I thought a poem NaNoWriMo would</span><span class="line">be fun, would line my resume, give me something I could publish someday.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,12 +36,12 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Tonight, as I look up, the stars<br />hide themselves in shame. <a href="moongone.html">There is no moon</a>.<br />The sky is black, like my desk,</p>
-            <p><a href="feedingtheraven.html">nothing like a raven</a>. The streetlights<br />look on the scene disinterested.<br />They have their own <a href="the-night-we-met.html">small gossips of the dark</a>.</p>
-            <p>I came here to find the Lion, old<br />friend, but he will not show his flanks, his<br />paws, his shoulders, <a href="axe.html">his mane</a>. I</p>
-            <p>can hear him laughing from his hiding-place<br />behind the moon, nonexistent, under<br />the cold dead earth. The mountain is in front</p>
-            <p>of me now, a hole of stars daring me<br />to pierce it with my sight. The lion’s still<br />laughing; the streetlamps talk about</p>
-            <p>me amongst themselves, and go out. There<br />never was any lion, they tell me.<br /><a href="cold-wind.html">You only hear the wind</a> <a href="mountain.html">on the mountain</a>.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Tonight, as I look up, the stars</span><span class="line">hide themselves in shame. <a href="moongone.html">There is no moon</a>.</span><span class="line">The sky is black, like my desk,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="feedingtheraven.html">nothing like a raven</a>. The streetlights</span><span class="line">look on the scene disinterested.</span><span class="line">They have their own <a href="the-night-we-met.html">small gossips of the dark</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I came here to find the Lion, old</span><span class="line">friend, but he will not show his flanks, his</span><span class="line">paws, his shoulders, <a href="axe.html">his mane</a>. I</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">can hear him laughing from his hiding-place</span><span class="line">behind the moon, nonexistent, under</span><span class="line">the cold dead earth. The mountain is in front</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">of me now, a hole of stars daring me</span><span class="line">to pierce it with my sight. The lion’s still</span><span class="line">laughing; the streetlamps talk about</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">me amongst themselves, and go out. There</span><span class="line">never was any lion, they tell me.</span><span class="line"><a href="cold-wind.html">You only hear the wind</a> <a href="mountain.html">on the mountain</a>.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -41,9 +41,9 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Look, I say—look here—<br />at this [old place<br />where nothing changes]<a href="planks.html">old-place</a>.<br />Look at the people<br />who pass by. Look at<br />the trees. The flowers<br />full of wanting: look<br /><a href="squirrel.html">how full they are</a> with<br />color. Look how they mock<br />us, empty people who<br />must fill themselves<br />with changes—emptiness.</p>
-            <p>“<a href="elegeyforanalternateself.html">There is nothing</a> to be<br />but happy. <a href="no-nothing.html">There is no</a><br />sadness to fall down<br />like cherry petals.“</p>
-            <p>The [trees don’t under-<br />stand:]<a href="plant.html">trees</a> they are too<br />tall to see the germ<br />of discontent in us.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Look, I say—look here—</span><span class="line">at this [old place</span><span class="line">where nothing changes]<a href="planks.html">old-place</a>.</span><span class="line">Look at the people</span><span class="line">who pass by. Look at</span><span class="line">the trees. The flowers</span><span class="line">full of wanting: look</span><span class="line"><a href="squirrel.html">how full they are</a> with</span><span class="line">color. Look how they mock</span><span class="line">us, empty people who</span><span class="line">must fill themselves</span><span class="line">with changes—emptiness.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">“<a href="elegeyforanalternateself.html">There is nothing</a> to be</span><span class="line">but happy. <a href="no-nothing.html">There is no</a></span><span class="line">sadness to fall down</span><span class="line">like cherry petals.“</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">The [trees don’t under-</span><span class="line">stand:]<a href="plant.html">trees</a> they are too</span><span class="line">tall to see the germ</span><span class="line">of discontent in us.</span></p>
         </section>
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@@ -38,12 +38,12 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>You think building Hoggle’s a hard game?<br />You know bunk. Writing a ghazal’s a hard game.</p>
-            <p>Let’s meet in a place where words &amp; fabric play—<br />but not <a href="sense-of-it.html">plastic</a> words. (Boggle’s a hard game.)</p>
-            <p>A cookout where we can hash our differences<br />over steak, though making it sizzle’s a hard game.</p>
-            <p>Let’s go to a brothel, <a href="finding-the-lion.html">rub shoulders</a> with bare<br />shoulders, or a bar. Being wastrel’s a hard game.</p>
-            <p>Maybe we could switch professions, you and I,<br />you write the poems, I’ll puppet Fozzie—a hard game.</p>
-            <p>When you call me, you never say my name.<br />Creativity’s <a href="fire.html">a hose</a>—shutting the nozzle’s the hard game.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">You think building Hoggle’s a hard game?</span><span class="line">You know bunk. Writing a ghazal’s a hard game.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Let’s meet in a place where words &amp; fabric play—</span><span class="line">but not <a href="sense-of-it.html">plastic</a> words. (Boggle’s a hard game.)</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">A cookout where we can hash our differences</span><span class="line">over steak, though making it sizzle’s a hard game.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Let’s go to a brothel, <a href="finding-the-lion.html">rub shoulders</a> with bare</span><span class="line">shoulders, or a bar. Being wastrel’s a hard game.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Maybe we could switch professions, you and I,</span><span class="line">you write the poems, I’ll puppet Fozzie—a hard game.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">When you call me, you never say my name.</span><span class="line">Creativity’s <a href="fire.html">a hose</a>—shutting the nozzle’s the hard game.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I was away on vacation when I heard—<br />someone sat at my desk while I was away.<br />They took my pen, while I was taking<br />surf lessons, and wrote the sun into the sky.<br />They pre-approved the earth and the waters,<br />and all of the living things, without even<br />having the decency to text me. It was not I<br />who was behind the phrase “creeping things.”<br />When I got back, of course I was pissed,<br />but it was <a href="shipwright.html">already written</a> into the policy.<br />I’m just saying: don’t blame me for Cain<br />killing Abel. That was a murder. I’m not a cop.<br />The Tower of Babel fell on its own. The ark<br />never saw a single drop of rain. I’m <a href="problems.html">the drunk</a><br />sitting on the curb who just pissed his pants,<br />holding up a sign asking where I am.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I was away on vacation when I heard—</span><span class="line">someone sat at my desk while I was away.</span><span class="line">They took my pen, while I was taking</span><span class="line">surf lessons, and wrote the sun into the sky.</span><span class="line">They pre-approved the earth and the waters,</span><span class="line">and all of the living things, without even</span><span class="line">having the decency to text me. It was not I</span><span class="line">who was behind the phrase “creeping things.”</span><span class="line">When I got back, of course I was pissed,</span><span class="line">but it was <a href="shipwright.html">already written</a> into the policy.</span><span class="line">I’m just saying: don’t blame me for Cain</span><span class="line">killing Abel. That was a murder. I’m not a cop.</span><span class="line">The Tower of Babel fell on its own. The ark</span><span class="line">never saw a single drop of rain. I’m <a href="problems.html">the drunk</a></span><span class="line">sitting on the curb who just pissed his pants,</span><span class="line">holding up a sign asking where I am.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I am a great pillar of <a href="deathstrumpet.html">white smoke</a>.<br />I am Lot’s nameless wife encased in salt.<br />I am the wound on Christ’s back as he moans<br />with the pounding of a hammer on his wrist.<br />I am the nail that holds my house together.<br />It is a strong house, built on a good foundation.<br />In the winter, it is warm and crawling things<br />cannot get in. This house will never burn down.<br />It is the house that I built, with my body<br />and with my strength. I am the only one who lives<br />here. I am both father and mother to a race<br />of <a href="plant.html">dust motes that worship me as a god</a>. I have<br />monuments built daily in my honor in dark<br />corners around the house. I destroy all of them<br />before I go to bed, but in the morning<br />there are still more. I don’t think I know<br />where all of them are. I <a href="howithappened.html">don’t think</a> I can get<br />to all of them anymore. There are too many.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I am a great pillar of <a href="deathstrumpet.html">white smoke</a>.</span><span class="line">I am Lot’s nameless wife encased in salt.</span><span class="line">I am the wound on Christ’s back as he moans</span><span class="line">with the pounding of a hammer on his wrist.</span><span class="line">I am the nail that holds my house together.</span><span class="line">It is a strong house, built on a good foundation.</span><span class="line">In the winter, it is warm and crawling things</span><span class="line">cannot get in. This house will never burn down.</span><span class="line">It is the house that I built, with my body</span><span class="line">and with my strength. I am the only one who lives</span><span class="line">here. I am both father and mother to a race</span><span class="line">of <a href="plant.html">dust motes that worship me as a god</a>. I have</span><span class="line">monuments built daily in my honor in dark</span><span class="line">corners around the house. I destroy all of them</span><span class="line">before I go to bed, but in the morning</span><span class="line">there are still more. I don’t think I know</span><span class="line">where all of them are. I <a href="howithappened.html">don’t think</a> I can get</span><span class="line">to all of them anymore. There are too many.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -41,8 +41,8 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I thought I saw you walking<br />to the bus stop but it was only<br />a <a href="feedingtheraven.html">raven</a>. His croaks sounded nothing<br />like your footsteps (as they pound<br />down the hallway toward my bedroom)<br />his <a href="nothing-is-ever-over.html">wings</a> looked nothing like your<br />legs (running on the wrong side<br />of the road away from my house)<br />I think the one resemblance was the eyes</p>
-            <p>But that’s too easy<br />It’s just that I was thinking<br />of you and a raven flew by<br />(maybe it was a <a href="stump.html">crow</a>)</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I thought I saw you walking</span><span class="line">to the bus stop but it was only</span><span class="line">a <a href="feedingtheraven.html">raven</a>. His croaks sounded nothing</span><span class="line">like your footsteps (as they pound</span><span class="line">down the hallway toward my bedroom)</span><span class="line">his <a href="nothing-is-ever-over.html">wings</a> looked nothing like your</span><span class="line">legs (running on the wrong side</span><span class="line">of the road away from my house)</span><span class="line">I think the one resemblance was the eyes</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">But that’s too easy</span><span class="line">It’s just that I was thinking</span><span class="line">of you and a raven flew by</span><span class="line">(maybe it was a <a href="stump.html">crow</a>)</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,9 +36,9 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I want to say I take it all back<br />I want<br />I want to take it back I want it none of it<br />to be ever have happened not<br />when I saw you step over the rope<br />when we went to New York for a week<br />but stayed upstate when you punched me<br />hard in the solar plexus in Prague<br />when I looked in your face and <a href="deathstrumpet.html">saw myself</a><br />looking back smiling when we went on another trip<br />and another all the trips I want to have<br />stayed home I want to have seen the clouds<br />drifting past <a href="boy_bus.html">my car window</a> to have listened<br />to that sound the bridge makes driving over it<br />without thinking of you always it was you</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I want to say I take it all back</span><span class="line">I want</span><span class="line">I want to take it back I want it none of it</span><span class="line">to be ever have happened not</span><span class="line">when I saw you step over the rope</span><span class="line">when we went to New York for a week</span><span class="line">but stayed upstate when you punched me</span><span class="line">hard in the solar plexus in Prague</span><span class="line">when I looked in your face and <a href="deathstrumpet.html">saw myself</a></span><span class="line">looking back smiling when we went on another trip</span><span class="line">and another all the trips I want to have</span><span class="line">stayed home I want to have seen the clouds</span><span class="line">drifting past <a href="boy_bus.html">my car window</a> to have listened</span><span class="line">to that sound the bridge makes driving over it</span><span class="line">without thinking of you always it was you</span></p>
             <p>I want</p>
-            <p>I <a href="plant.html">want to be fresh</a> I want to roll out of bed<br />as though it were my <a href="collage-instrument.html">first morning in a new state</a><br />I want nothing more than absolution of sins<br /><a href="no-nothing.html">a negation but there is no way to subtract here</a><br />I cannot remove this growth that appeared<br />seemingly overnight I cannot <a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">cut you away from myself</a><br />I cannot forget what has already and will always have been<br />I cannot get out of a <a href="in-bed.html">new bed</a> ever<br />New York will always be as it was when I saw it first<br />with you my breathing will always be labored outside<br />of the cafe I will always see you when <a href="lovesong.html">I look in a mirror</a><br />of someone’s face the reflection of missed thoughts missed<br /><a href="words-meaning.html">words will cease to give meaning</a> the center will come out<br />of me I will make a new center yes I will drag what is<br />your center around with me and <a href="question.html">repeat and repeat</a> again<br />I cannot want cannot want want not</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I <a href="plant.html">want to be fresh</a> I want to roll out of bed</span><span class="line">as though it were my <a href="collage-instrument.html">first morning in a new state</a></span><span class="line">I want nothing more than absolution of sins</span><span class="line"><a href="no-nothing.html">a negation but there is no way to subtract here</a></span><span class="line">I cannot remove this growth that appeared</span><span class="line">seemingly overnight I cannot <a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">cut you away from myself</a></span><span class="line">I cannot forget what has already and will always have been</span><span class="line">I cannot get out of a <a href="in-bed.html">new bed</a> ever</span><span class="line">New York will always be as it was when I saw it first</span><span class="line">with you my breathing will always be labored outside</span><span class="line">of the cafe I will always see you when <a href="lovesong.html">I look in a mirror</a></span><span class="line">of someone’s face the reflection of missed thoughts missed</span><span class="line"><a href="words-meaning.html">words will cease to give meaning</a> the center will come out</span><span class="line">of me I will make a new center yes I will drag what is</span><span class="line">your center around with me and <a href="question.html">repeat and repeat</a> again</span><span class="line">I cannot want cannot want want not</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,13 +36,13 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I wanted to tell you something in order <a href="poetry-time.html">to</a><br />explain the way I feel about the <a href="initial-conditions.html">Universe</a>,<br />its workings, etc. But I couldn’t <a href="exasperated.html">yesterday</a><br />—I’m sorry—I wanted only to <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">ball</a><br />myself up and cry all day. It was the <a href="sixteenth-chapel.html">sixteenth</a><br />day in a row this happened to me, and to <a href="love-as-god.html">be</a></p>
-            <p>more than two weeks waiting to cry is,<br />especially when, the whole time, I wasn’t able to,<br />absolutely horrible. It was no sweet sixteen,<br />I’ll tell you that much. Unless at yours, the Universe<br />kept telling you to quit having such a ball<br />and that you should have died, like, yesterday.</p>
-            <p>At first, it feels like you’re winning—that yesterday<br />you really were meant to die, but since you still <em>are</em>,<br />you beat the system somehow. But the Universe bawls,<br />“No, I meant you should’ve crawled into<br />a hole and fucking <em>died</em>!&quot; And then the Universe<br />punches you right in the gut, something like sixteen</p>
-            <p>times, and all you can think is, “Some sixteenth<br />birthday! Maybe I will go die in a hole.&quot; Yesterday,<br />at times like this, is a luxury the cruel Universe<br />refuses to give you. This is when it’s a pain just to <em>be</em>,<br />when that Marvell line about “<a href="http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/marvell/coy.htm">rolling our stuff into one ball</a>”<br />just seems glib, when you don’t want one body, let alone two.</p>
-            <p>Something else that may come as a surprise to<br />you: over the past more-than-a-fortnight, these sixteen<br />days, I’ve had nothing to eat but crackers and a cheese ball.<br />(That’s not entirely true—yesterday<br />I had some candy, peppermints and Jujubes.)<br />Maybe this is why I’m so mad at the Universe—</p>
-            <p>because all it has ever wanted, this Universe<br />that gave me life, fed me from its breast til I was two,<br />and even before that, made a place in which I could be—<br />all it’s wanted was for me to take the sixteen<br />steps to sobriety, fold the Eight-Fold Path over yesterday<br />and step around it lightly, as I would an exercise ball,</p>
-            <p>but the problem is, dear Universe, there’s no way I could be<br />something as hard as all that, to wake up yesterday<br />morning, stretch over my sixteen selves, bound out like a ball.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I wanted to tell you something in order <a href="poetry-time.html">to</a></span><span class="line">explain the way I feel about the <a href="initial-conditions.html">Universe</a>,</span><span class="line">its workings, etc. But I couldn’t <a href="exasperated.html">yesterday</a></span><span class="line">—I’m sorry—I wanted only to <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">ball</a></span><span class="line">myself up and cry all day. It was the <a href="sixteenth-chapel.html">sixteenth</a></span><span class="line">day in a row this happened to me, and to <a href="love-as-god.html">be</a></span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">more than two weeks waiting to cry is,</span><span class="line">especially when, the whole time, I wasn’t able to,</span><span class="line">absolutely horrible. It was no sweet sixteen,</span><span class="line">I’ll tell you that much. Unless at yours, the Universe</span><span class="line">kept telling you to quit having such a ball</span><span class="line">and that you should have died, like, yesterday.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">At first, it feels like you’re winning—that yesterday</span><span class="line">you really were meant to die, but since you still <em>are</em>,</span><span class="line">you beat the system somehow. But the Universe bawls,</span><span class="line">“No, I meant you should’ve crawled into</span><span class="line">a hole and fucking <em>died</em>!&quot; And then the Universe</span><span class="line">punches you right in the gut, something like sixteen</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">times, and all you can think is, “Some sixteenth</span><span class="line">birthday! Maybe I will go die in a hole.&quot; Yesterday,</span><span class="line">at times like this, is a luxury the cruel Universe</span><span class="line">refuses to give you. This is when it’s a pain just to <em>be</em>,</span><span class="line">when that Marvell line about “<a href="http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/marvell/coy.htm">rolling our stuff into one ball</a>”</span><span class="line">just seems glib, when you don’t want one body, let alone two.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Something else that may come as a surprise to</span><span class="line">you: over the past more-than-a-fortnight, these sixteen</span><span class="line">days, I’ve had nothing to eat but crackers and a cheese ball.</span><span class="line">(That’s not entirely true—yesterday</span><span class="line">I had some candy, peppermints and Jujubes.)</span><span class="line">Maybe this is why I’m so mad at the Universe—</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">because all it has ever wanted, this Universe</span><span class="line">that gave me life, fed me from its breast til I was two,</span><span class="line">and even before that, made a place in which I could be—</span><span class="line">all it’s wanted was for me to take the sixteen</span><span class="line">steps to sobriety, fold the Eight-Fold Path over yesterday</span><span class="line">and step around it lightly, as I would an exercise ball,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">but the problem is, dear Universe, there’s no way I could be</span><span class="line">something as hard as all that, to wake up yesterday</span><span class="line">morning, stretch over my sixteen selves, bound out like a ball.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -38,57 +38,57 @@
         <section class="content verse">
             <section id="i" class="level2">
             <h2>I</h2>
-            <p>I hear <a href="last-bastion.html">the rats</a> run<br />in the walls like water<br />through a tree. My blood</p>
-            <p>thickens. As I dream<br />the masturbation dream<br />the shelf above my bed</p>
-            <p>falls covering me in<br />dirt and decaying beetles.<br /><a href="deathstrumpet.html">I see my reflection is headless</a>.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I hear <a href="last-bastion.html">the rats</a> run</span><span class="line">in the walls like water</span><span class="line">through a tree. My blood</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">thickens. As I dream</span><span class="line">the masturbation dream</span><span class="line">the shelf above my bed</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">falls covering me in</span><span class="line">dirt and decaying beetles.</span><span class="line"><a href="deathstrumpet.html">I see my reflection is headless</a>.</span></p>
             </section>
             <section id="ii" class="level2">
             <h2>II</h2>
-            <p>When the waves stop<br /><a href="moon-drowning.html">and the moon grins down</a><br />to overtake me: the car</p>
-            <p>ran up the street that night<br />when you were nearly<br />molested in your neighbor’s house:</p>
-            <p>is this why we don’t have<br />neighbors? For this the trees<br /><a href="options.html">rot only for us</a>?</p>
+            <p><span class="line">When the waves stop</span><span class="line"><a href="moon-drowning.html">and the moon grins down</a></span><span class="line">to overtake me: the car</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">ran up the street that night</span><span class="line">when you were nearly</span><span class="line">molested in your neighbor’s house:</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">is this why we don’t have</span><span class="line">neighbors? For this the trees</span><span class="line"><a href="options.html">rot only for us</a>?</span></p>
             </section>
             <section id="iii" class="level2">
             <h2>III</h2>
-            <p>I woke screaming and you<br />came to sit next to me. I felt<br />my eyes were open too wide</p>
-            <p>that I could not shut them<br />from the horror movie sitting<br />on your lap in the easy chair</p>
-            <p>in the dream the other dream<br />in the living room under<br />the tree. Why do I feel guilty?</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I woke screaming and you</span><span class="line">came to sit next to me. I felt</span><span class="line">my eyes were open too wide</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">that I could not shut them</span><span class="line">from the horror movie sitting</span><span class="line">on your lap in the easy chair</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">in the dream the other dream</span><span class="line">in the living room under</span><span class="line">the tree. Why do I feel guilty?</span></p>
             </section>
             <section id="iv" class="level2">
             <h2>IV</h2>
-            <p>I wake up in a pool of water<br /><a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">closed over me like an eyelid</a>.<br />There is no longer comfort</p>
-            <p>in staring at the ceiling.<br />Its pitch blackness beckons<br />into a future of blankness.</p>
-            <p>My body lay still quaking.<br />My mind is chained fast<br />to the beating of my heart.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I wake up in a pool of water</span><span class="line"><a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">closed over me like an eyelid</a>.</span><span class="line">There is no longer comfort</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">in staring at the ceiling.</span><span class="line">Its pitch blackness beckons</span><span class="line">into a future of blankness.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">My body lay still quaking.</span><span class="line">My mind is chained fast</span><span class="line">to the beating of my heart.</span></p>
             </section>
             <section id="v" class="level2">
             <h2>V</h2>
-            <p>I sit up slowly creaking.<br />I find myself alone buried<br /><a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">in an ocean</a>. Far off</p>
-            <p><a href="mountain.html">there is an eagle</a> flying<br />toward me. She lands on<br />my knee and lays an egg.</p>
-            <p>I think <em>not this again</em><br />something I’ve never<br />thought in my life.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I sit up slowly creaking.</span><span class="line">I find myself alone buried</span><span class="line"><a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">in an ocean</a>. Far off</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="mountain.html">there is an eagle</a> flying</span><span class="line">toward me. She lands on</span><span class="line">my knee and lays an egg.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I think <em>not this again</em></span><span class="line">something I’ve never</span><span class="line">thought in my life.</span></p>
             </section>
             <section id="vi" class="level2">
             <h2>VI</h2>
-            <p>I think <em>not this again</em><br />something I’ve never<br />thought in my life. Not</p>
-            <p>after losing my car keys<br />in the easy chair. Not after<br />scratching myself on a branch.</p>
-            <p>Not after finding the thing<br />in your dresser drawer that<br />night. <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">I remember you suddenly.</a></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I think <em>not this again</em></span><span class="line">something I’ve never</span><span class="line">thought in my life. Not</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">after losing my car keys</span><span class="line">in the easy chair. Not after</span><span class="line">scratching myself on a branch.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Not after finding the thing</span><span class="line">in your dresser drawer that</span><span class="line">night. <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">I remember you suddenly.</a></span></p>
             </section>
             <section id="vii" class="level2">
             <h2>VII</h2>
-            <p>[You run through me<br />like rats]<a href="#I">rats</a> down an alley.<br />You are in my <a href="plant.html">blood</a>.</p>
-            <p>You scared me once<br />remember? Jumped out<br />of the bathroom door.</p>
-            <p>I fell screaming onto<br />the linoleum. Did you<br />apologize? Did you need to?</p>
+            <p><span class="line">[You run through me</span><span class="line">like rats]<a href="#I">rats</a> down an alley.</span><span class="line">You are in my <a href="plant.html">blood</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">You scared me once</span><span class="line">remember? Jumped out</span><span class="line">of the bathroom door.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I fell screaming onto</span><span class="line">the linoleum. Did you</span><span class="line">apologize? Did you need to?</span></p>
             </section>
             <section id="viii" class="level2">
             <h2>VIII</h2>
-            <p>The ocean that surrounds me<br />creaks like a rocking<br />cradle. Your face bright</p>
-            <p>as the moon at eclipse<br />and as <a href="window.html">red</a>. Low song<br />my tide stretching</p>
-            <p>to the horizon. Ripples<br />on the surface belie<br />something bigger beneath.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">The ocean that surrounds me</span><span class="line">creaks like a rocking</span><span class="line">cradle. Your face bright</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">as the moon at eclipse</span><span class="line">and as <a href="window.html">red</a>. Low song</span><span class="line">my tide stretching</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">to the horizon. Ripples</span><span class="line">on the surface belie</span><span class="line">something bigger beneath.</span></p>
             </section>
             <section id="ix" class="level2">
             <h2>IX</h2>
-            <p>In bed I am alone for<br />the only time. In bed<br />I am a grown man.</p>
-            <p>Below the blankets I<br />know you for who you are.<br />In bed I see your face</p>
-            <p>pressed against the window.<br />I look out and see you<br />and I am not afraid.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">In bed I am alone for</span><span class="line">the only time. In bed</span><span class="line">I am a grown man.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Below the blankets I</span><span class="line">know you for who you are.</span><span class="line">In bed I see your face</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">pressed against the window.</span><span class="line">I look out and see you</span><span class="line">and I am not afraid.</span></p>
             </section>
         </section>
     </article>
@@ -36,13 +36,13 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>There is a theory which states the Universe<br />if it began with the same initial conditions<br />( <a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">same gravity</a> same strong weak nuclear force same<br />size and shape ) would unfold in exactly<br />the way it has : with the same planets <a href="big-dipper.html">orbiting suns</a><br />same people making same mistakes : like this morning</p>
-            <p>( It’s actually past two but I will call it <a href="plant.html">morning</a> )<br />while turning on the shower : I as the Universe<br />intended ( although I was expecting the heat of suns )<br /><a href="100-lines.html">had the ice of inner space</a> : those pre existing conditions<br />before the Big Bang : the shower was almost exactly<br />freezing for a split second : every day it’s the same :</p>
-            <p><a href="hard-game.html">I turn on the tap</a> hop in pull the knob have the same<br />moment of utter panic then pain then a relaxing morning<br />shower where I spend between five to ten ( I’m not sure exactly )<br />minutes : I have good thoughts : <a href="howtoread.html">this poem about the Universe</a><br />for example : I had the idea while I was conditioning<br />my hair : it came to me like accidentally looking at the sun :</p>
-            <p>the pain and the wonder that something as large as suns<br />could appear so small and yet so hot all at the same<br />time : so hot in the summer we require air conditioning<br />( although now in the winter it’s cold in the morning )<br />and I can’t wait to hop in the shower that tiny universe<br />of water and steam and soap and <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">body</a> : that and only that exactly</p>
-            <p>or rather exclusively ( it’s hard to get the words exactly<br />right : the meanings bleed into each other like the sun’s<br />shadows on pavement ) ready for me to <a href="dream.html">dream</a> another universe<br />into it on top of it again and again until they all look the same :<br />I can’t tell whether it’s my morning or the shower’s morning<br />or where I put the conditioner or what the initial conditions</p>
-            <p>could have been that decided I would misplace my conditioner<br />today : and why and how much planning was involved exactly<br />that would cause so far down the production line of this morning<br />: me to <a href="stump.html">wake up so long after the rising</a> of the sun<br />: me to stay inside all day even after showering to look at the same<br /><a href="telemarketer.html">computer screen</a> : to give up the actual universe to the universe</p>
-            <p>in there with its conditions : where <a href="reports.html">the screen serves</a> as sickly sun :<br />where there is apparently exactly what I need : no more : the same<br />three sites I visited this morning comprising my entire Universe</p>
+            <p><span class="line">There is a theory which states the Universe</span><span class="line">if it began with the same initial conditions</span><span class="line">( <a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">same gravity</a> same strong weak nuclear force same</span><span class="line">size and shape ) would unfold in exactly</span><span class="line">the way it has : with the same planets <a href="big-dipper.html">orbiting suns</a></span><span class="line">same people making same mistakes : like this morning</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">( It’s actually past two but I will call it <a href="plant.html">morning</a> )</span><span class="line">while turning on the shower : I as the Universe</span><span class="line">intended ( although I was expecting the heat of suns )</span><span class="line"><a href="100-lines.html">had the ice of inner space</a> : those pre existing conditions</span><span class="line">before the Big Bang : the shower was almost exactly</span><span class="line">freezing for a split second : every day it’s the same :</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="hard-game.html">I turn on the tap</a> hop in pull the knob have the same</span><span class="line">moment of utter panic then pain then a relaxing morning</span><span class="line">shower where I spend between five to ten ( I’m not sure exactly )</span><span class="line">minutes : I have good thoughts : <a href="howtoread.html">this poem about the Universe</a></span><span class="line">for example : I had the idea while I was conditioning</span><span class="line">my hair : it came to me like accidentally looking at the sun :</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">the pain and the wonder that something as large as suns</span><span class="line">could appear so small and yet so hot all at the same</span><span class="line">time : so hot in the summer we require air conditioning</span><span class="line">( although now in the winter it’s cold in the morning )</span><span class="line">and I can’t wait to hop in the shower that tiny universe</span><span class="line">of water and steam and soap and <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">body</a> : that and only that exactly</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">or rather exclusively ( it’s hard to get the words exactly</span><span class="line">right : the meanings bleed into each other like the sun’s</span><span class="line">shadows on pavement ) ready for me to <a href="dream.html">dream</a> another universe</span><span class="line">into it on top of it again and again until they all look the same :</span><span class="line">I can’t tell whether it’s my morning or the shower’s morning</span><span class="line">or where I put the conditioner or what the initial conditions</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">could have been that decided I would misplace my conditioner</span><span class="line">today : and why and how much planning was involved exactly</span><span class="line">that would cause so far down the production line of this morning</span><span class="line">: me to <a href="stump.html">wake up so long after the rising</a> of the sun</span><span class="line">: me to stay inside all day even after showering to look at the same</span><span class="line"><a href="telemarketer.html">computer screen</a> : to give up the actual universe to the universe</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">in there with its conditions : where <a href="reports.html">the screen serves</a> as sickly sun :</span><span class="line">where there is apparently exactly what I need : no more : the same</span><span class="line">three sites I visited this morning comprising my entire Universe</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,13 +36,13 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>January.<br />It’s cold, and I don’t like it.<br />I prefer warm weather,<br />although I like sweaters. They are the one<br />warm spot in an otherwise <a href="tapestry.html">shitty</a> season.<br />But fall is better sweater weather. So be patient,</p>
-            <p><em>patient</em>,<br />while waiting for the end of January.<br />A change of season<br />brings a change of mood along with it,<br />although I never thought I’d be one<br />to believe that <a href="seasonal-affective-disorder.html">SAD</a> junk about effects of weather—</p>
-            <p>weather!—<br />on a person. Who becomes a patient<br />just because of one<br /><a href="snow.html">month of snow</a>? I did say of January:<br />“It’s cold, and I don’t like it,”<br />but I hardly think it’s fair, knocking whole seasons,</p>
-            <p>seasoning<br />your conversation with demands for better weather.<br />(While I find it<br />nearly impossible, it’s my mission to be patient<br />while waiting for the end of January.)<br />Oh, but how the long nights do so <a href="http://www.irs.gov/">tax</a> one!</p>
-            <p>One<br /><a href="real-writer.html">warm spot</a> in an otherwise shitty season—<br />all I ask, January,<br />is one warm day. Do you care whether<br />I’m a person who becomes a patient<br />in some psych ward? This just about does it.</p>
-            <p>I.T.,<br />although I never thought I’d call one,<br />is fair and patient<br />when I call. They talk with me, season<br />my conversation of demands for better weather<br />with an argument for the white beauty of January.</p>
-            <p>They know it’s hard; they say each season<br />has its detractors. <em>One day</em>, they say, _the weather<br />will be controlled—until then, patience in January_.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">January.</span><span class="line">It’s cold, and I don’t like it.</span><span class="line">I prefer warm weather,</span><span class="line">although I like sweaters. They are the one</span><span class="line">warm spot in an otherwise <a href="tapestry.html">shitty</a> season.</span><span class="line">But fall is better sweater weather. So be patient,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><em>patient</em>,</span><span class="line">while waiting for the end of January.</span><span class="line">A change of season</span><span class="line">brings a change of mood along with it,</span><span class="line">although I never thought I’d be one</span><span class="line">to believe that <a href="seasonal-affective-disorder.html">SAD</a> junk about effects of weather—</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">weather!—</span><span class="line">on a person. Who becomes a patient</span><span class="line">just because of one</span><span class="line"><a href="snow.html">month of snow</a>? I did say of January:</span><span class="line">“It’s cold, and I don’t like it,”</span><span class="line">but I hardly think it’s fair, knocking whole seasons,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">seasoning</span><span class="line">your conversation with demands for better weather.</span><span class="line">(While I find it</span><span class="line">nearly impossible, it’s my mission to be patient</span><span class="line">while waiting for the end of January.)</span><span class="line">Oh, but how the long nights do so <a href="http://www.irs.gov/">tax</a> one!</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">One</span><span class="line"><a href="real-writer.html">warm spot</a> in an otherwise shitty season—</span><span class="line">all I ask, January,</span><span class="line">is one warm day. Do you care whether</span><span class="line">I’m a person who becomes a patient</span><span class="line">in some psych ward? This just about does it.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I.T.,</span><span class="line">although I never thought I’d call one,</span><span class="line">is fair and patient</span><span class="line">when I call. They talk with me, season</span><span class="line">my conversation of demands for better weather</span><span class="line">with an argument for the white beauty of January.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">They know it’s hard; they say each season</span><span class="line">has its detractors. <em>One day</em>, they say, _the weather</span><span class="line">will be controlled—until then, patience in January_.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -51,8 +51,8 @@
             </section>
             <section id="ii.-lappel-du-vide" class="level2 verse">
             <h2>II. L’appel du vide</h2>
-            <p>And I’ll get in my car and drive<br />and I’ll want to keep driving<br />straight into the next state<br />or even the next country<br />or even even the ocean</p>
-            <p>and go down deeper<br />keep exploring forever<br />find out what’s down there<br />go to the Marianas trench<br />miss the air world and<br />come back up<br />itself a kind of unknown<br />the homecoming after</p>
+            <p><span class="line">And I’ll get in my car and drive</span><span class="line">and I’ll want to keep driving</span><span class="line">straight into the next state</span><span class="line">or even the next country</span><span class="line">or even even the ocean</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">and go down deeper</span><span class="line">keep exploring forever</span><span class="line">find out what’s down there</span><span class="line">go to the Marianas trench</span><span class="line">miss the air world and</span><span class="line">come back up</span><span class="line">itself a kind of unknown</span><span class="line">the homecoming after</span></p>
             <p>What happened to the home I was?</p>
             </section>
         </section>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>What secrets does it hold?<br />Can it tell us who kissed Sara<br />that night on the veranda, or<br />who Joey is really in love with?<br />We all know it isn’t Sara, we<br />mean look at them Christmas eve<br />and he’s staring whistfully<br />at the stars, or the largest<br />asteroid in the asteroid belt.<br />She’s staring at him, sure, but<br />she sees the twinkle in his eye<br />is not aimed in her direction.<br />The reflection of that reflection<br />will beam into space, lightyears<br />of space, dimming slowly each<br />second, until it dies out like<br />all of Sara’s hopes for something<br />resembling love in this life, real<br />love that takes hold of her by<br />the throat and refuses to let go,<br />love that makes men travel for her<br />and only for her, love that launches<br />space ships to that asteroid, the<br />largest in the asteroid belt, that<br />jewel of dead rock and ice, harboring<br />something that could’ve been life<br /><a href="http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/stevens-snowman.html">and nothing that actually is</a>.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">What secrets does it hold?</span><span class="line">Can it tell us who kissed Sara</span><span class="line">that night on the veranda, or</span><span class="line">who Joey is really in love with?</span><span class="line">We all know it isn’t Sara, we</span><span class="line">mean look at them Christmas eve</span><span class="line">and he’s staring whistfully</span><span class="line">at the stars, or the largest</span><span class="line">asteroid in the asteroid belt.</span><span class="line">She’s staring at him, sure, but</span><span class="line">she sees the twinkle in his eye</span><span class="line">is not aimed in her direction.</span><span class="line">The reflection of that reflection</span><span class="line">will beam into space, lightyears</span><span class="line">of space, dimming slowly each</span><span class="line">second, until it dies out like</span><span class="line">all of Sara’s hopes for something</span><span class="line">resembling love in this life, real</span><span class="line">love that takes hold of her by</span><span class="line">the throat and refuses to let go,</span><span class="line">love that makes men travel for her</span><span class="line">and only for her, love that launches</span><span class="line">space ships to that asteroid, the</span><span class="line">largest in the asteroid belt, that</span><span class="line">jewel of dead rock and ice, harboring</span><span class="line">something that could’ve been life</span><span class="line"><a href="http://www.writing.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/stevens-snowman.html">and nothing that actually is</a>.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,10 +36,10 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Dimly remembered celebrity chefs shuffle<br />down the cold and darkened highways of the heart.<br />They are the last personality left. They are [the meek<br />who inherited the heart]<a href="http://biblehub.com/matthew/5-5.htm">meek</a>, what was left of it.</p>
-            <p>Without food to cook in new or exciting ways<br />nor audience to gasp and cackle, the chefs<br />of the heart quietly waste away while staring<br />doe-eyed into now-empty Safeway windows<br />checking under the dusty produce shelves<br />for something they pray the <a href="in-bed.html">rats</a> haven’t found yet.</p>
-            <p>Years ago, the economy of the heart boomed<br />and there was food everywhere. Produce<br />piled high in pyramids of devotion, meat in<br />gilded glass cases opulent under fluorescence,<br />dairy which ran like the <a href="music-433.html">mythical river</a> toward<br />cereals hot and cold. Under it all, thrumming<br />like great stone wheels on sand under a hot sun<br />near a river where reeds sang in the wind<br />the heart produced and gave reward for hard labor.</p>
-            <p>No one knows when it all ended. No one can say<br />if it was the heart that dried up or the heart’s supply.<br />Either way, food of the heart became scarcer and scarcer.<br />People began dying, not of starvation<br />but of a certain facial expression that could only<br />be described as desperation. Now<br />all that are left are the celebrity chefs, last bastion<br />of a once mighty empire of the [heart<br />are reduced to husks]<a href="sense-of-it.html">heart</a> blown dry by wind.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Dimly remembered celebrity chefs shuffle</span><span class="line">down the cold and darkened highways of the heart.</span><span class="line">They are the last personality left. They are [the meek</span><span class="line">who inherited the heart]<a href="http://biblehub.com/matthew/5-5.htm">meek</a>, what was left of it.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Without food to cook in new or exciting ways</span><span class="line">nor audience to gasp and cackle, the chefs</span><span class="line">of the heart quietly waste away while staring</span><span class="line">doe-eyed into now-empty Safeway windows</span><span class="line">checking under the dusty produce shelves</span><span class="line">for something they pray the <a href="in-bed.html">rats</a> haven’t found yet.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Years ago, the economy of the heart boomed</span><span class="line">and there was food everywhere. Produce</span><span class="line">piled high in pyramids of devotion, meat in</span><span class="line">gilded glass cases opulent under fluorescence,</span><span class="line">dairy which ran like the <a href="music-433.html">mythical river</a> toward</span><span class="line">cereals hot and cold. Under it all, thrumming</span><span class="line">like great stone wheels on sand under a hot sun</span><span class="line">near a river where reeds sang in the wind</span><span class="line">the heart produced and gave reward for hard labor.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">No one knows when it all ended. No one can say</span><span class="line">if it was the heart that dried up or the heart’s supply.</span><span class="line">Either way, food of the heart became scarcer and scarcer.</span><span class="line">People began dying, not of starvation</span><span class="line">but of a certain facial expression that could only</span><span class="line">be described as desperation. Now</span><span class="line">all that are left are the celebrity chefs, last bastion</span><span class="line">of a once mighty empire of the [heart</span><span class="line">are reduced to husks]<a href="sense-of-it.html">heart</a> blown dry by wind.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,9 +36,9 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Memory works strangely, <a href="roughgloves.html">spooling its thread</a><br />over the <a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">nails of events</a> barely related,<br />creating finally some picture, if we’re<br />lucky, of a life—but more likely, it knots<br />itself, catches on a nail or in our throats<br />that gasp, as it binds our necks, for air.</p>
-            <p>An example: today marks one hundred years<br />since your namesake, the last living passenger<br />pigeon, died in Cincinnati. It also marks<br />a year since we last spoke. Although around<br />the world, zoos mourn her loss, I’m done<br />with you. I mourn no more your voice, the first<br />sound I heard outside my body that reached<br /><a href="weplayedthosegamestoo.html">into my throat and set me ringing</a>. But that string—</p>
-            <p>memory that feels sometimes more like a tide<br />has yoked together, bound your voice to that bird,<br />the frozen, stuffed, forgotten pigeon—my heart<br />is too easy, but it must do—to blink, to flex<br />its unused toes, slowly thaw to the wetness<br />of <a href="cold-wind.html">beating wings</a>, fly to me again, and alight,<br />singing full-throated, on my broken shoulder.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Memory works strangely, <a href="roughgloves.html">spooling its thread</a></span><span class="line">over the <a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">nails of events</a> barely related,</span><span class="line">creating finally some picture, if we’re</span><span class="line">lucky, of a life—but more likely, it knots</span><span class="line">itself, catches on a nail or in our throats</span><span class="line">that gasp, as it binds our necks, for air.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">An example: today marks one hundred years</span><span class="line">since your namesake, the last living passenger</span><span class="line">pigeon, died in Cincinnati. It also marks</span><span class="line">a year since we last spoke. Although around</span><span class="line">the world, zoos mourn her loss, I’m done</span><span class="line">with you. I mourn no more your voice, the first</span><span class="line">sound I heard outside my body that reached</span><span class="line"><a href="weplayedthosegamestoo.html">into my throat and set me ringing</a>. But that string—</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">memory that feels sometimes more like a tide</span><span class="line">has yoked together, bound your voice to that bird,</span><span class="line">the frozen, stuffed, forgotten pigeon—my heart</span><span class="line">is too easy, but it must do—to blink, to flex</span><span class="line">its unused toes, slowly thaw to the wetness</span><span class="line">of <a href="cold-wind.html">beating wings</a>, fly to me again, and alight,</span><span class="line">singing full-throated, on my broken shoulder.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,8 +36,8 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>If you swallow hard enough<br />you’ll <a href="serengeti.html">feel the stone</a><br />the one we all have waiting</p>
-            <p>Once I <a href="plant.html">found the stone</a> in<br />the sea it kissed me as<br /><a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">the sea pawed at my back</a></p>
+            <p><span class="line">If you swallow hard enough</span><span class="line">you’ll <a href="serengeti.html">feel the stone</a></span><span class="line">the one we all have waiting</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Once I <a href="plant.html">found the stone</a> in</span><span class="line">the sea it kissed me as</span><span class="line"><a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">the sea pawed at my back</a></span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,13 +36,13 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+John+4%3A8&amp;version=NIV">God is love</a>, they say, but there <a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">is</a><br />no god. Therefore, how can there be love?<br />And if there is no love, how can there be God?<br />There are things in life, I suppose,<br />that are simply unanswerable mysteries<br />of existence. Maybe this God and love are one.</p>
-            <p>Maybe there are many loves, instead of one.<br />The difference between <a href="largest-asteroid.html">what isn’t</a> and what is<br />could merely be one of scope. The mystery<br />is how we speak only of one love—<br />to act as though we know we are supposed<br />to love only one other, or that one other and God.</p>
-            <p>But supposing that one other is God?<br />What then? Is the God-lover to walk alone,<br />supported by God only when He feels He is supposed<br />to support her? What kind of love is<br />this? I would argue in fact this isn’t love,<br />this <a href="http://www.footprints-inthe-sand.com/index.php?page=Poem/Poem.php">one-set-of-footprints-in-the-sand</a> mystery.</p>
-            <p>How to define two loves as one is the mystery.<br />It’s obvious to many there is a thing called God,<br />and just as obvious that there is one called love.<br />Maybe we fool ourselves, we who can’t be alone;<br />maybe we don’t know what either God or love is.<br />Maybe, and perhaps; but I for one propose</p>
-            <p>that we as only humans are not supposed<br />to know or understand capital-L Life, that mystery.<br />Isn’t it enough to know that God is<br />love, and love is God,<br />no matter which one<br />does or does not exist? What is life, if no love,</p>
-            <p>if no God? <a href="cereal.html">Maybe</a> this saying, “God is love,”<br />is less a definition of God what what love is supposed<br />to be. Of these two terms, <a href="death-zone.html">maybe2</a> the one<br />we should capitalize is Love, that great mystery<br />of chemistry and longing. Maybe “Love is god”<br />is a more fitting <a href="epigraph.html">epigraph</a> for what life is</p>
-            <p><a href="tapestry.html">made of:</a> Love, that most delicate, most misty<br />of all emotions, is supposed to be their god,<br />as the one that binds us, that was, that will be, that is.</p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1+John+4%3A8&amp;version=NIV">God is love</a>, they say, but there <a href="i-wanted-to-tell-you-something.html">is</a></span><span class="line">no god. Therefore, how can there be love?</span><span class="line">And if there is no love, how can there be God?</span><span class="line">There are things in life, I suppose,</span><span class="line">that are simply unanswerable mysteries</span><span class="line">of existence. Maybe this God and love are one.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Maybe there are many loves, instead of one.</span><span class="line">The difference between <a href="largest-asteroid.html">what isn’t</a> and what is</span><span class="line">could merely be one of scope. The mystery</span><span class="line">is how we speak only of one love—</span><span class="line">to act as though we know we are supposed</span><span class="line">to love only one other, or that one other and God.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">But supposing that one other is God?</span><span class="line">What then? Is the God-lover to walk alone,</span><span class="line">supported by God only when He feels He is supposed</span><span class="line">to support her? What kind of love is</span><span class="line">this? I would argue in fact this isn’t love,</span><span class="line">this <a href="http://www.footprints-inthe-sand.com/index.php?page=Poem/Poem.php">one-set-of-footprints-in-the-sand</a> mystery.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">How to define two loves as one is the mystery.</span><span class="line">It’s obvious to many there is a thing called God,</span><span class="line">and just as obvious that there is one called love.</span><span class="line">Maybe we fool ourselves, we who can’t be alone;</span><span class="line">maybe we don’t know what either God or love is.</span><span class="line">Maybe, and perhaps; but I for one propose</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">that we as only humans are not supposed</span><span class="line">to know or understand capital-L Life, that mystery.</span><span class="line">Isn’t it enough to know that God is</span><span class="line">love, and love is God,</span><span class="line">no matter which one</span><span class="line">does or does not exist? What is life, if no love,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">if no God? <a href="cereal.html">Maybe</a> this saying, “God is love,”</span><span class="line">is less a definition of God what what love is supposed</span><span class="line">to be. Of these two terms, <a href="death-zone.html">maybe2</a> the one</span><span class="line">we should capitalize is Love, that great mystery</span><span class="line">of chemistry and longing. Maybe “Love is god”</span><span class="line">is a more fitting <a href="epigraph.html">epigraph</a> for what life is</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="tapestry.html">made of:</a> Love, that most delicate, most misty</span><span class="line">of all emotions, is supposed to be their god,</span><span class="line">as the one that binds us, that was, that will be, that is.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -5,9 +5,12 @@
 # Define directories, file lists, and options
 TEXTs  := $(wildcard *.txt)
 
+VERSIFY = trunk/versify.exe
+
 HTMLbl := index.html template.html index-txt.html
 HTMLs  := $(filter-out $(HTMLbl),$(patsubst %.txt,%.html,$(TEXTs)))
 HTMopts = --template=template.html
+HTMopts+= --filter=$(VERSIFY)
 HTMopts+= --smart --mathml --section-divs
 
 HAPAXbl:= first-lines.river common-titles.river hapax.river
@@ -35,7 +38,7 @@ river   : $(RIVERs)
 lozenge : $(LOZENGE)
 
 # Generic rule for HTML targets and Markdown sources
-%.html : %.txt template.html
+%.html : %.txt template.html $(VERSIFY)
         pandoc $< -f markdown -t html5 $(HTMopts) -o $@
 
 # Generic rule for RIVER targets and Markdown sources
@@ -45,6 +48,9 @@ lozenge : $(LOZENGE)
              -e "s/[^][A-Za-z0-9\/\"':.-]/ /g" $< |\
          pandoc - -f markdown -t $(RIVERer) -o $@
 
+$(VERSIFY) : trunk/versify.hs
+        ghc --make trunk/versify.hs
+
 $(LOZENGE) : $(HTMLs)
         @echo "Updating lozenge.js..."
         @list=`echo $(HTMLs) |\
@@ -37,7 +37,7 @@
         
         <section class="content prose">
             <p>What is a poem? I think it was Yeats that called a poem “the best words in the best order,” and that isn’t an inaccurate description, but I don’t think it captures all of what a poem is. <a href="prelude.html">Let me start</a> with communication.</p>
-            <p>Communication is a transaction, an exchange between two people or entities, in which one (the Speaker/Writer/Communicator) gives the other (the Reader/Listener/Consumer) a<br />set of ideas /<br />a wireframe organization of a concept /<br />a set of reasons/instructions for action. In many kinds of communication, for example speeches, reports, or advertisements, the kind of ideas transacted are generally factual/logical/brain-based in nature. In art, these ideas are emotional/heart-based. In short, Art is to Emotion as an <a href="README.html#fn1">Article</a> is to Information. I think art should strive to transmit the emotion the author feels as efficiently as possible to the reader of that art.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Communication is a transaction, an exchange between two people or entities, in which one (the Speaker/Writer/Communicator) gives the other (the Reader/Listener/Consumer) a</span><span class="line">set of ideas /</span><span class="line">a wireframe organization of a concept /</span><span class="line">a set of reasons/instructions for action. In many kinds of communication, for example speeches, reports, or advertisements, the kind of ideas transacted are generally factual/logical/brain-based in nature. In art, these ideas are emotional/heart-based. In short, Art is to Emotion as an <a href="README.html#fn1">Article</a> is to Information. I think art should strive to transmit the emotion the author feels as efficiently as possible to the reader of that art.</span></p>
             <p>In order to do this, multiple notation systems have been devised. Music is the most notable example that comes to mind, as it has the most rigid style, but grammar, as used self-consciously in writing, would be another example. Poetry has only a very loose set of rules and assumptions that allow it a sort of notational language, and this is complicated by the fact that when writing poetry, the author writes for a different medium: poetry is meant to be performed aloud. This makes the notation system even more important, but again, it’s hard to come up with a system that will be read mostly the same by most people.</p>
             <p>What I’ve been trying to do since I began writing is develop a personal notation system, or what I think most would refer to as my “voice” as a poet/writer (I personally don’t like the word “poet,” as it sounds pretentious to me; I’m aware I should get over this).</p>
             <p>However, there were some places that still needed improving from my draft manuscript: most notably, my prose in “Rip Tide of Memory” (now only “Rip Tide”) and “AMBER Alert.” I rewrote each to tighten their syntactic and idea rhythm, to make them move more lightly and gracefully.</p>
@@ -36,10 +36,10 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p><a href="moongone.html">The moon is drowning</a> the stars it pushes them<br />under into the darkness they cannot breathe<br />they are flailing the moon boasts to my shadow<br />how powerful is the moon how great its light</p>
-            <p>My shadow nods and calls the moon father though<br />it acknowledges also the existence of others<br />headlights are like little moons father my shadow says<br />they pass like waves in a dark ocean</p>
-            <p>Father moon becomes angry and threatens<br />I can maroon you shadow I can trap you in darkness<br />your strength comes from my own the little moons<br />are fleeting like foam on a darkened sea</p>
-            <p>My shadow fears the night as it fears death<br />but it remembers the moon’s strength is from another<br />my shadow wants the headlights like an ocean<br />might want the moon as a seducer as a lover</p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="moongone.html">The moon is drowning</a> the stars it pushes them</span><span class="line">under into the darkness they cannot breathe</span><span class="line">they are flailing the moon boasts to my shadow</span><span class="line">how powerful is the moon how great its light</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">My shadow nods and calls the moon father though</span><span class="line">it acknowledges also the existence of others</span><span class="line">headlights are like little moons father my shadow says</span><span class="line">they pass like waves in a dark ocean</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Father moon becomes angry and threatens</span><span class="line">I can maroon you shadow I can trap you in darkness</span><span class="line">your strength comes from my own the little moons</span><span class="line">are fleeting like foam on a darkened sea</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">My shadow fears the night as it fears death</span><span class="line">but it remembers the moon’s strength is from another</span><span class="line">my shadow wants the headlights like an ocean</span><span class="line">might want the moon as a seducer as a lover</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,10 +36,10 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>The other side of this mountain<br />is not the mountain. This side<br />is honey-golden, sticky-sweet,<br />full of phone conversations with mother.<br />The other side is a bell,<br />ringing in the church-steeple<br />the day mother died.</p>
-            <p>The other side of the mountain<br /><a href="apollo11.html">is not a mountain. It is a dark</a><br />valley crossed by a river.<br />There is a ferry at the bottom.</p>
-            <p>This mountain is not a mountain.<br />I walked to the top, but it turned<br />and was only a shelf halfway up.<br />I felt like an unused Bible<br />sitting on a <a href="and.html">dusty pew</a>.</p>
-            <p>A hawk soars over the mountain.<br />She is looking for home.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">The other side of this mountain</span><span class="line">is not the mountain. This side</span><span class="line">is honey-golden, sticky-sweet,</span><span class="line">full of phone conversations with mother.</span><span class="line">The other side is a bell,</span><span class="line">ringing in the church-steeple</span><span class="line">the day mother died.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">The other side of the mountain</span><span class="line"><a href="apollo11.html">is not a mountain. It is a dark</a></span><span class="line">valley crossed by a river.</span><span class="line">There is a ferry at the bottom.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">This mountain is not a mountain.</span><span class="line">I walked to the top, but it turned</span><span class="line">and was only a shelf halfway up.</span><span class="line">I felt like an unused Bible</span><span class="line">sitting on a <a href="and.html">dusty pew</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">A hawk soars over the mountain.</span><span class="line">She is looking for home.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -38,12 +38,12 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Silence lies underneath us all in the same way<br /><a href="http://members.authorsguild.net/svobodni/resonance_80307.htm" title="Personals">the Nile has a river underneath ten times as large</a><br />(although this is an urban legend, apparently).</p>
-            <p>So underneath <a href="phone.html">truth</a> or legend, flowing by<br />the feel of their own <a href="nothing-is-ever-over.html">silence</a>, move the stars:<br />silence lies underneath us all in the same way.</p>
-            <p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&amp;v=zY7UK-6aaNA#t=39">John Cage</a>, I think, understood this: the way<br />that, in a silent room, one still hears the nerves<br />(although this is an urban legend, apparently),</p>
-            <p>or the heart, which I find more easily<br />believable: there simply is no way that, by and large,<br />silence lies underneath us all in the same way.</p>
-            <p>There must be different silences, because we<br />have different <a href="swansong.html">songs</a> to drown them out, different gods<br />(although these are urban legends, apparently).</p>
-            <p>But is not all <a href="swansong-alt.html">sound one sound</a>? You and I<br />are two faces to the same head, the same body.<br />Silence lies underneath us all in the same way—<br />although this is an urban legend, apparently.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Silence lies underneath us all in the same way</span><span class="line"><a href="http://members.authorsguild.net/svobodni/resonance_80307.htm" title="Personals">the Nile has a river underneath ten times as large</a></span><span class="line">(although this is an urban legend, apparently).</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">So underneath <a href="phone.html">truth</a> or legend, flowing by</span><span class="line">the feel of their own <a href="nothing-is-ever-over.html">silence</a>, move the stars:</span><span class="line">silence lies underneath us all in the same way.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&amp;v=zY7UK-6aaNA#t=39">John Cage</a>, I think, understood this: the way</span><span class="line">that, in a silent room, one still hears the nerves</span><span class="line">(although this is an urban legend, apparently),</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">or the heart, which I find more easily</span><span class="line">believable: there simply is no way that, by and large,</span><span class="line">silence lies underneath us all in the same way.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">There must be different silences, because we</span><span class="line">have different <a href="swansong.html">songs</a> to drown them out, different gods</span><span class="line">(although these are urban legends, apparently).</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">But is not all <a href="swansong-alt.html">sound one sound</a>? You and I</span><span class="line">are two faces to the same head, the same body.</span><span class="line">Silence lies underneath us all in the same way—</span><span class="line">although this is an urban legend, apparently.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,8 +36,8 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>While <a href="father.html">swimming in the river</a><br />I saw <a href="music-433.html">underneath it a river</a><br />of stars. Only there was no<br />river: it was noon. You can<br />say the sun is a river; you<br />can argue the stars back it<br />like <a href="lovessong.html">shirts behind a closet</a><br />door; you can say <a href="big-dipper.html">the earth</a><br />holds us up with its weight<br />or that it means well or it<br />means anything.<br />                There is no<br />closet, <a href="amber-alert.html">nor door</a>; there are<br />no shirts hanging anywhere.<br />There is no false wall that<br />leads deep into the earth’s<br />bowels, <a href="real-writer.html">growing warmer</a> with<br />each step. Warmth as a con-<br />cept has ceased to make any<br />sense. In contraposition to<br />cold, it might, but cold as<br />well <a href="i-think-its-you.html">stepped out</a> last night<br />and hasn’t returned.<br />                     Last I<br />heard, it went out swimming<br />and <a href="in-bed.html">might’ve drowned</a>. Trees<br />were the pallbearers at the<br />funeral, the train was long<br />and wailful, there was much<br /><a href="http://biblehub.com/luke/13-28.htm">wailing and gnashing</a> of all<br />teeth–though there were no<br />teeth, no train, no funeral<br />or prayer or trees at all–<br />nor a <a href="howtoread.html">river underneath</a> any-<br />thing. There was nothing to<br />be underneath anymore.<br />                       Look<br />around, and tell me you see<br />something. Look around, and<br />tell me something that I do<br />not know. I know, more than<br />anything, that the world is<br />always ending. Behind that,<br />there is nothing, save that<br />there is no nothing either.</p>
-            <p>Nothing somehow still turns<br />and flows past us, past all<br />time and beyond it, a river<br />returning, to its forgotten<br />origins deep within itself.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">While <a href="father.html">swimming in the river</a></span><span class="line">I saw <a href="music-433.html">underneath it a river</a></span><span class="line">of stars. Only there was no</span><span class="line">river: it was noon. You can</span><span class="line">say the sun is a river; you</span><span class="line">can argue the stars back it</span><span class="line">like <a href="lovessong.html">shirts behind a closet</a></span><span class="line">door; you can say <a href="big-dipper.html">the earth</a></span><span class="line">holds us up with its weight</span><span class="line">or that it means well or it</span><span class="line">means anything.</span><span class="line">                There is no</span><span class="line">closet, <a href="amber-alert.html">nor door</a>; there are</span><span class="line">no shirts hanging anywhere.</span><span class="line">There is no false wall that</span><span class="line">leads deep into the earth’s</span><span class="line">bowels, <a href="real-writer.html">growing warmer</a> with</span><span class="line">each step. Warmth as a con-</span><span class="line">cept has ceased to make any</span><span class="line">sense. In contraposition to</span><span class="line">cold, it might, but cold as</span><span class="line">well <a href="i-think-its-you.html">stepped out</a> last night</span><span class="line">and hasn’t returned.</span><span class="line">                     Last I</span><span class="line">heard, it went out swimming</span><span class="line">and <a href="in-bed.html">might’ve drowned</a>. Trees</span><span class="line">were the pallbearers at the</span><span class="line">funeral, the train was long</span><span class="line">and wailful, there was much</span><span class="line"><a href="http://biblehub.com/luke/13-28.htm">wailing and gnashing</a> of all</span><span class="line">teeth–though there were no</span><span class="line">teeth, no train, no funeral</span><span class="line">or prayer or trees at all–</span><span class="line">nor a <a href="howtoread.html">river underneath</a> any-</span><span class="line">thing. There was nothing to</span><span class="line">be underneath anymore.</span><span class="line">                       Look</span><span class="line">around, and tell me you see</span><span class="line">something. Look around, and</span><span class="line">tell me something that I do</span><span class="line">not know. I know, more than</span><span class="line">anything, that the world is</span><span class="line">always ending. Behind that,</span><span class="line">there is nothing, save that</span><span class="line">there is no nothing either.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Nothing somehow still turns</span><span class="line">and flows past us, past all</span><span class="line">time and beyond it, a river</span><span class="line">returning, to its forgotten</span><span class="line">origins deep within itself.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p><a href="no-nothing.html">Nothing is ever over</a>; nothing<br />is ever even begun. The foundation<br />hasn’t been laid; how can we hope<br />to put in the plumbing? The bed<br />is unmade, not even made; the wood<br /><a href="axe.html">hasn’t been cleft from the tree</a>;<br />the seed hasn’t been cast<br />out of water and growth and sun,<br />which itself hasn’t started shining.<br />The cock has never stopped crowing<br />because he never started. Peter<br /><a href="spittle.html">betrays us again</a> and again with<br />silence. Christ wakes up at night,<br /><a href="in-bed.html">choking from a bad dream</a>, wrists<br />aching from a dreamt, torturous pain.</p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="no-nothing.html">Nothing is ever over</a>; nothing</span><span class="line">is ever even begun. The foundation</span><span class="line">hasn’t been laid; how can we hope</span><span class="line">to put in the plumbing? The bed</span><span class="line">is unmade, not even made; the wood</span><span class="line"><a href="axe.html">hasn’t been cleft from the tree</a>;</span><span class="line">the seed hasn’t been cast</span><span class="line">out of water and growth and sun,</span><span class="line">which itself hasn’t started shining.</span><span class="line">The cock has never stopped crowing</span><span class="line">because he never started. Peter</span><span class="line"><a href="spittle.html">betrays us again</a> and again with</span><span class="line">silence. Christ wakes up at night,</span><span class="line"><a href="in-bed.html">choking from a bad dream</a>, wrists</span><span class="line">aching from a dreamt, torturous pain.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@
             <p>This is because poetry has more than one dimension, due to its linear nature—those line breaks are intentional, and the poem can’t just fit into any-sized book or web page. If prose is a liquid, filling any container it’s placed in with a constant volume, poetry is more like a crystallized form of prose, or to put it another way, poetry has between <a href="http://www.vanderbilt.edu/AnS/psychology/cogsci/chaos/workshop/Fractals.html">one and two dimensions</a>. I wouldn’t say that poetry has fully two dimensions, except for some of the more conceptually visual stuff that I’d call a word-picture anyway, because from line to line that unidimensionality of prose remains. Poetry has a higher dimensionality than prose, though, because it’s crystallized there on the page; this fractal-dimensionality of poetry has interesting side effects on the genre itself.</p>
             <p>For one thing, poetry isn’t as bound by time as prose is. It can, as Marianne Boruch writes, resist “narrative sequence,” or “the forward press of <em>time</em> itself,” due to its repetitions and diversions, which are in turn made possible or more apparent by its line breaks. It’s able to meditate on a subject, or expand on it lyrically, exploring the emotions connected with the images in the poem, or the connections between images. Through repitition of sounds, the poem builds meaning through resonance and rhyming, something that’s harder to do in prose. Take, for example, the first lines of “<a href="http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html">The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock</a>:”</p>
             <blockquote>
-            <p>LET us go then, you and I,<br />When the evening is spread out against the sky<br />Like a patient etherized upon a table;<br />Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,<br />The muttering retreats<br />Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels<br />And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:<br />Streets that follow like a tedious argument<br />Of insidious intent<br />To lead you to an overwhelming question….<br />Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”<br />Let us go and make our visit.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">LET us go then, you and I,</span><span class="line">When the evening is spread out against the sky</span><span class="line">Like a patient etherized upon a table;</span><span class="line">Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,</span><span class="line">The muttering retreats</span><span class="line">Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels</span><span class="line">And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:</span><span class="line">Streets that follow like a tedious argument</span><span class="line">Of insidious intent</span><span class="line">To lead you to an overwhelming question….</span><span class="line">Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”</span><span class="line">Let us go and make our visit.</span></p>
             </blockquote>
             <p>And here it is again, without line breaks:</p>
             <blockquote>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I think that I could write formal poems<br />exclusively, or at least inclusive<br />with all the other stuff I write<br />I guess. Of course, I’ve already written<br />a few, this one included, though “formal”<br />is maybe a stretch. Is blank verse a form?<br />What is form anyway? I picture old<br />women counting <a href="roughgloves.html">stitches on their knitting</a>,<br />keeping iambs next to iambs in lines<br />as straight and sure as arrows. But my sock<br />is lumpy, poorly made: it’s beginning<br />to unravel. Stresses don’t line up. Syl-<br />lables forced to fit like <a href="ronaldmcdonald.html">McNugget</a> molds.<br />That cliché on the arrow? I’m aware.<br />My prepositions too—God, where’s it stop?<br />The answer: never. I will never stop<br />writing poems, or hating what I write.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I think that I could write formal poems</span><span class="line">exclusively, or at least inclusive</span><span class="line">with all the other stuff I write</span><span class="line">I guess. Of course, I’ve already written</span><span class="line">a few, this one included, though “formal”</span><span class="line">is maybe a stretch. Is blank verse a form?</span><span class="line">What is form anyway? I picture old</span><span class="line">women counting <a href="roughgloves.html">stitches on their knitting</a>,</span><span class="line">keeping iambs next to iambs in lines</span><span class="line">as straight and sure as arrows. But my sock</span><span class="line">is lumpy, poorly made: it’s beginning</span><span class="line">to unravel. Stresses don’t line up. Syl-</span><span class="line">lables forced to fit like <a href="ronaldmcdonald.html">McNugget</a> molds.</span><span class="line">That cliché on the arrow? I’m aware.</span><span class="line">My prepositions too—God, where’s it stop?</span><span class="line">The answer: never. I will never stop</span><span class="line">writing poems, or hating what I write.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,8 +36,8 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I need a plant. I need a thing<br />to take care of. I need<br />a little green brownspotted<br /><a href="building.html">blackdirt</a> growing<br />quietness. I need a sunlit<br />dawn knowing my name filtered<br />through a <a href="window.html">thin green window</a>.<br />I need chlorophyll<br />working its <a href="cereal.html">magic</a> on beams of<br />grassmade early morning dewdrop<br />sweetmaking green. I need<br />the dark earth sucking water<br />from a black crevice<br />its black magic churning<br />wormilled rockturned starblind<br />darkness and cold into<br /><a href="https://samofthetenthousandthings.wordpress.com/2012/09/08/charles-wright-reads-james-wright-the-journey-audio-poem/">the opposite of dust</a>. I need the heat<br />to blind me. I need the dumb making<br />to charge my coldened blood. I need<br />the dropturned leaves to turn again<br />their <a href="no-nothing.html">faces to the windblown sun</a>.<br />I need millions of tiny years<br />summed up and burning out some unknown<br />new growth into the air. I need four<br />hundred feet of dark red gnarled wood<br />and needles glistening wetly on goldheaded<br />branches hoisting themselves<br />to the sky. I need ten strong men<br />to fail to bring you down. Old one<br />I need the peace that comes with knowing<br />something sacred holds still<br />in the world. I need your green tongues<br /><a href="fire.html">of flame to lick at old wounds</a><br />stitching us together away from ourselves.<br />I need your brownbranching grasp<br />to keep me from drifting off<br />into <a href="in-bed.html">unknowing terrible sleep</a>. I need<br /><a href="ouroboros_memory.html">to know the snake</a> hanging<br />from your branches. I need to watch<br />the dropping of flesh massful<br />onto the ground from a height. I need<br />the gnawer at your root to strike<br />a vein to quicken old brown stone<br />to movement. I need jeweleyed venom<br />barking new greennesses into the bark.<br />I need a knocker of dark secrets hidden<br />in the dark bark hiding a smallstone<br />smoldering pearl in the knot. I need<br />that <a href="roughgloves.html">pearl held out in a hand</a> like an offering.<br />I need the hand to be a plant’s hand.</p>
-            <p>I need a plant. I need a growing<br />growler <a href="feedingtheraven.html">groaning</a> toward heat and air.<br />I need a green thin stem surprisingly strong<br />holding up the weight of a plain<br />of fallow <a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">greennesses of creases and caresses</a><br />of tiny worldmaking hardworking grandeur.<br />I need a singer of life crying<br />forward into old roads covered over<br />by dead trees. I need the rasping of root<br />in dirt. I need the unfurling of fiddleheads<br />to sing forth a new symphony. I need<br />fruits swelling large for the harvest.<br />I need yellow light shining through white bark.<br />I need juicecrush flowing waterlike<br />through valleys percolating up<br />through the ground. I need springs bubbling sap<br />into cabins of wood fought for by labor.<br />I need snow on the ground with shoots<br />dotting the melting patches. I need two<br />leaves on a thin stalk shivering<br />in <a href="finding-the-lion.html">moonlight</a>. I need robinsong warbling<br />over the heads of small seeds sprouting<br />to enliven their growth. I need rings<br />of woody material widening to push<br />the ground out of their way. I need<br />new greennesses pushing out from<br />the brown dark bark gnarled. I<br />need the robin to build its songfilled<br />nest in a <a href="epigraph.html">branchcrotch</a>. I need<br />the fecundity of fungi on the branches.<br />I need quiet of the sunlight shooting<br />through thousands of branched leaves<br />quivering. <a href="apollo11.html">I need whisper at dawn.</a><br />I need burrows underground foxholes.<br />I need duff layers eaten through<br />by worms. I need brooks murmuring<br />through crooks of roots. I need small<br /><a href="proverbs.html">fish swimming</a> in their schools at<br />midnight. I need oldnesses giving way<br /><a href="about-the-author.html">to youngnesses giving way to oldnesses</a>.<br />I need dapplegray yellowshot ashbark.<br />I need the crunch of dead leaves underfoot.<br />I need <a href="100-lines.html">snowquiet deadbranch</a> mourning.<br />I need those <a href="http://www.wrensworld.com/purpmount.htm">purple mountains majesty</a>.<br />I need a walk between trees in the dark.<br />I need that moment when stopping to rest<br />it suddenly seems that all the weary<br /><a href="http://www.bartleby.com/119/1.html">forestroads</a> in all their meandering come<br /><a href="riptide_memory.html">to rest their heads</a> at my astonished<br />feet, none of them needing more than me.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I need a plant. I need a thing</span><span class="line">to take care of. I need</span><span class="line">a little green brownspotted</span><span class="line"><a href="building.html">blackdirt</a> growing</span><span class="line">quietness. I need a sunlit</span><span class="line">dawn knowing my name filtered</span><span class="line">through a <a href="window.html">thin green window</a>.</span><span class="line">I need chlorophyll</span><span class="line">working its <a href="cereal.html">magic</a> on beams of</span><span class="line">grassmade early morning dewdrop</span><span class="line">sweetmaking green. I need</span><span class="line">the dark earth sucking water</span><span class="line">from a black crevice</span><span class="line">its black magic churning</span><span class="line">wormilled rockturned starblind</span><span class="line">darkness and cold into</span><span class="line"><a href="https://samofthetenthousandthings.wordpress.com/2012/09/08/charles-wright-reads-james-wright-the-journey-audio-poem/">the opposite of dust</a>. I need the heat</span><span class="line">to blind me. I need the dumb making</span><span class="line">to charge my coldened blood. I need</span><span class="line">the dropturned leaves to turn again</span><span class="line">their <a href="no-nothing.html">faces to the windblown sun</a>.</span><span class="line">I need millions of tiny years</span><span class="line">summed up and burning out some unknown</span><span class="line">new growth into the air. I need four</span><span class="line">hundred feet of dark red gnarled wood</span><span class="line">and needles glistening wetly on goldheaded</span><span class="line">branches hoisting themselves</span><span class="line">to the sky. I need ten strong men</span><span class="line">to fail to bring you down. Old one</span><span class="line">I need the peace that comes with knowing</span><span class="line">something sacred holds still</span><span class="line">in the world. I need your green tongues</span><span class="line"><a href="fire.html">of flame to lick at old wounds</a></span><span class="line">stitching us together away from ourselves.</span><span class="line">I need your brownbranching grasp</span><span class="line">to keep me from drifting off</span><span class="line">into <a href="in-bed.html">unknowing terrible sleep</a>. I need</span><span class="line"><a href="ouroboros_memory.html">to know the snake</a> hanging</span><span class="line">from your branches. I need to watch</span><span class="line">the dropping of flesh massful</span><span class="line">onto the ground from a height. I need</span><span class="line">the gnawer at your root to strike</span><span class="line">a vein to quicken old brown stone</span><span class="line">to movement. I need jeweleyed venom</span><span class="line">barking new greennesses into the bark.</span><span class="line">I need a knocker of dark secrets hidden</span><span class="line">in the dark bark hiding a smallstone</span><span class="line">smoldering pearl in the knot. I need</span><span class="line">that <a href="roughgloves.html">pearl held out in a hand</a> like an offering.</span><span class="line">I need the hand to be a plant’s hand.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I need a plant. I need a growing</span><span class="line">growler <a href="feedingtheraven.html">groaning</a> toward heat and air.</span><span class="line">I need a green thin stem surprisingly strong</span><span class="line">holding up the weight of a plain</span><span class="line">of fallow <a href="the-sea_the-beach.html">greennesses of creases and caresses</a></span><span class="line">of tiny worldmaking hardworking grandeur.</span><span class="line">I need a singer of life crying</span><span class="line">forward into old roads covered over</span><span class="line">by dead trees. I need the rasping of root</span><span class="line">in dirt. I need the unfurling of fiddleheads</span><span class="line">to sing forth a new symphony. I need</span><span class="line">fruits swelling large for the harvest.</span><span class="line">I need yellow light shining through white bark.</span><span class="line">I need juicecrush flowing waterlike</span><span class="line">through valleys percolating up</span><span class="line">through the ground. I need springs bubbling sap</span><span class="line">into cabins of wood fought for by labor.</span><span class="line">I need snow on the ground with shoots</span><span class="line">dotting the melting patches. I need two</span><span class="line">leaves on a thin stalk shivering</span><span class="line">in <a href="finding-the-lion.html">moonlight</a>. I need robinsong warbling</span><span class="line">over the heads of small seeds sprouting</span><span class="line">to enliven their growth. I need rings</span><span class="line">of woody material widening to push</span><span class="line">the ground out of their way. I need</span><span class="line">new greennesses pushing out from</span><span class="line">the brown dark bark gnarled. I</span><span class="line">need the robin to build its songfilled</span><span class="line">nest in a <a href="epigraph.html">branchcrotch</a>. I need</span><span class="line">the fecundity of fungi on the branches.</span><span class="line">I need quiet of the sunlight shooting</span><span class="line">through thousands of branched leaves</span><span class="line">quivering. <a href="apollo11.html">I need whisper at dawn.</a></span><span class="line">I need burrows underground foxholes.</span><span class="line">I need duff layers eaten through</span><span class="line">by worms. I need brooks murmuring</span><span class="line">through crooks of roots. I need small</span><span class="line"><a href="proverbs.html">fish swimming</a> in their schools at</span><span class="line">midnight. I need oldnesses giving way</span><span class="line"><a href="about-the-author.html">to youngnesses giving way to oldnesses</a>.</span><span class="line">I need dapplegray yellowshot ashbark.</span><span class="line">I need the crunch of dead leaves underfoot.</span><span class="line">I need <a href="100-lines.html">snowquiet deadbranch</a> mourning.</span><span class="line">I need those <a href="http://www.wrensworld.com/purpmount.htm">purple mountains majesty</a>.</span><span class="line">I need a walk between trees in the dark.</span><span class="line">I need that moment when stopping to rest</span><span class="line">it suddenly seems that all the weary</span><span class="line"><a href="http://www.bartleby.com/119/1.html">forestroads</a> in all their meandering come</span><span class="line"><a href="riptide_memory.html">to rest their heads</a> at my astonished</span><span class="line">feet, none of them needing more than me.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
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@@ -36,13 +36,13 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I’m writing this now because I have to.<br />Not in some “my soul yearns for this and<br />I can’t help it&quot; way, but in the way that this<br />moment is structured as such, that it is<br />crystallized this way, me writing this, and later<br />you reading it, now for you, later for me,</p>
-            <p>and this tenuous connection mates me<br />and you forever, combined with each other, two<br /><a href="treatise.html">electrons momentarily entwined</a>. Later,<br />when I’m dead or far too famous for you, and<br />you’re in school, reading my words because it is<br />required reading, I want you to remember this</p>
-            <p>connection we’ve always had, this<br /><a href="last-passenger.html">spider’s thread</a> hanging between you and me.<br />Which of us is the spider and which is<br />the fly still remains to be seen. To<br />eat, perchance to fly: all of that and<br />more. We can settle all of this later.</p>
-            <p>Yes, it is you I’m thinking of in your later<br />time: you specifically, not another. This<br />is true for all <math display="inline" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1998/Math/MathML"><semantics><mi>x</mi><annotation encoding="application/x-tex">x</annotation></semantics></math> such that <math display="inline" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1998/Math/MathML"><semantics><mrow><mi>x</mi><mo>&gt;</mo><mn>0</mn></mrow><annotation encoding="application/x-tex">x &gt; 0</annotation></semantics></math> and<br /><math display="inline" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1998/Math/MathML"><semantics><mi>x</mi><annotation encoding="application/x-tex">x</annotation></semantics></math> is a real person, though it doesn’t bother me<br />to write to a fictional figure or to<br /><a href="epigraph.html">a figment</a>, maybe, of my imagination. This is</p>
-            <p>what you are right now, anyway, <a href="real-writer.html">dear Reader</a>, is<br />it not? I’m talking about my now, of course, not later,<br />which is your now. Later will be my now too,<br />and maybe I’m ultimately writing to a future part of this<br />self: you could very well be me.<br />In fact, you probably are me, <a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">some other version</a>, and</p>
-            <p>I am you in the past, or what you could’ve been, and<br />at the same time, this isn’t true. Everything is,<br />and nothing isn’t. The difference between “you” and “me”<br />is in name only. Maybe you’ll get this later,<br /><a href="found-typewriter-poem.html">when you’re older</a>, when I’m older, when all of this<br />is something we’ll look fondly back to,</p>
-            <p>because I do hope to meet you, although much later,<br />and I hope your feeling is the same. All this<br />talk on me and you and you and me we’ll keep between us two.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I’m writing this now because I have to.</span><span class="line">Not in some “my soul yearns for this and</span><span class="line">I can’t help it&quot; way, but in the way that this</span><span class="line">moment is structured as such, that it is</span><span class="line">crystallized this way, me writing this, and later</span><span class="line">you reading it, now for you, later for me,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">and this tenuous connection mates me</span><span class="line">and you forever, combined with each other, two</span><span class="line"><a href="treatise.html">electrons momentarily entwined</a>. Later,</span><span class="line">when I’m dead or far too famous for you, and</span><span class="line">you’re in school, reading my words because it is</span><span class="line">required reading, I want you to remember this</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">connection we’ve always had, this</span><span class="line"><a href="last-passenger.html">spider’s thread</a> hanging between you and me.</span><span class="line">Which of us is the spider and which is</span><span class="line">the fly still remains to be seen. To</span><span class="line">eat, perchance to fly: all of that and</span><span class="line">more. We can settle all of this later.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Yes, it is you I’m thinking of in your later</span><span class="line">time: you specifically, not another. This</span><span class="line">is true for all <math display="inline" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1998/Math/MathML"><semantics><mi>x</mi><annotation encoding="application/x-tex">x</annotation></semantics></math> such that <math display="inline" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1998/Math/MathML"><semantics><mrow><mi>x</mi><mo>&gt;</mo><mn>0</mn></mrow><annotation encoding="application/x-tex">x &gt; 0</annotation></semantics></math> and</span><span class="line"><math display="inline" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1998/Math/MathML"><semantics><mi>x</mi><annotation encoding="application/x-tex">x</annotation></semantics></math> is a real person, though it doesn’t bother me</span><span class="line">to write to a fictional figure or to</span><span class="line"><a href="epigraph.html">a figment</a>, maybe, of my imagination. This is</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">what you are right now, anyway, <a href="real-writer.html">dear Reader</a>, is</span><span class="line">it not? I’m talking about my now, of course, not later,</span><span class="line">which is your now. Later will be my now too,</span><span class="line">and maybe I’m ultimately writing to a future part of this</span><span class="line">self: you could very well be me.</span><span class="line">In fact, you probably are me, <a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">some other version</a>, and</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I am you in the past, or what you could’ve been, and</span><span class="line">at the same time, this isn’t true. Everything is,</span><span class="line">and nothing isn’t. The difference between “you” and “me”</span><span class="line">is in name only. Maybe you’ll get this later,</span><span class="line"><a href="found-typewriter-poem.html">when you’re older</a>, when I’m older, when all of this</span><span class="line">is something we’ll look fondly back to,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">because I do hope to meet you, although much later,</span><span class="line">and I hope your feeling is the same. All this</span><span class="line">talk on me and you and you and me we’ll keep between us two.</span></p>
         </section>
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@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Sometimes I feel as though I am not a real writer.<br /><a href="cereal.html">I don’t smoke</a>. I don’t wake up early but I don’t sleep<br />all day either. I find myself increasingly interested<br />in dumb luck. Chance: I’ve found two dimes in as many<br />days. Does this mean I’ve found twenty lucky pennies?<br />I want you to participate. You the reader. You,<br />the probabilistic god of my dreams. I’ve been having<br /><a href="in-bed.html">strange dreams</a> lately. I don’t remember them but<br />they leave impressions. A bare foot. A tunnel<br />of hair from her face to mine. A boat stranded<br />in a living-room. Something warm. Something like the sun<br />through my eyelids. <a href="roughgloves.html">A hand, with all its dead symbology</a>.<br /><a href="no-nothing.html">My teeth have fallen out</a>. No, you pulled them out<br />with your hands, threw them over your left shoulder<br /><a href="i-am.html">like salt</a>, to wish away bad luck. I have something<br />to tell you: bad luck follows like a dog. It lets you<br />get ahead for a few days, a week, a year. You’ll see,<br />it’ll bite your sleeping face when you’re not looking.<br />I’ve been dreaming about the future, I know. In my dream<br />I am not a writer, <a href="riptide_memory.html">I live in a place with rain</a>. You<br />are sunning yourself as you read this, on a beach or<br />maybe a desert. Let me move in with you. I can cook<br /><a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">or clean</a> or take care of your dog while you’re out.<br />I’ll never have to write again. <a href="about-the-author.html">I’ll watch television</a>.<br />Do I want to become a writer? Tell me. Should I smoke?<br />I can sleep all day in your attic if you want, become<br /><a href="love-as-god.html">your god</a>, lose my own, settle to the bottom of the bed<br />like a boat in a river, dream about nothing but <a href="leaf.html">furniture</a>.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Sometimes I feel as though I am not a real writer.</span><span class="line"><a href="cereal.html">I don’t smoke</a>. I don’t wake up early but I don’t sleep</span><span class="line">all day either. I find myself increasingly interested</span><span class="line">in dumb luck. Chance: I’ve found two dimes in as many</span><span class="line">days. Does this mean I’ve found twenty lucky pennies?</span><span class="line">I want you to participate. You the reader. You,</span><span class="line">the probabilistic god of my dreams. I’ve been having</span><span class="line"><a href="in-bed.html">strange dreams</a> lately. I don’t remember them but</span><span class="line">they leave impressions. A bare foot. A tunnel</span><span class="line">of hair from her face to mine. A boat stranded</span><span class="line">in a living-room. Something warm. Something like the sun</span><span class="line">through my eyelids. <a href="roughgloves.html">A hand, with all its dead symbology</a>.</span><span class="line"><a href="no-nothing.html">My teeth have fallen out</a>. No, you pulled them out</span><span class="line">with your hands, threw them over your left shoulder</span><span class="line"><a href="i-am.html">like salt</a>, to wish away bad luck. I have something</span><span class="line">to tell you: bad luck follows like a dog. It lets you</span><span class="line">get ahead for a few days, a week, a year. You’ll see,</span><span class="line">it’ll bite your sleeping face when you’re not looking.</span><span class="line">I’ve been dreaming about the future, I know. In my dream</span><span class="line">I am not a writer, <a href="riptide_memory.html">I live in a place with rain</a>. You</span><span class="line">are sunning yourself as you read this, on a beach or</span><span class="line">maybe a desert. Let me move in with you. I can cook</span><span class="line"><a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">or clean</a> or take care of your dog while you’re out.</span><span class="line">I’ll never have to write again. <a href="about-the-author.html">I’ll watch television</a>.</span><span class="line">Do I want to become a writer? Tell me. Should I smoke?</span><span class="line">I can sleep all day in your attic if you want, become</span><span class="line"><a href="love-as-god.html">your god</a>, lose my own, settle to the bottom of the bed</span><span class="line">like a boat in a river, dream about nothing but <a href="leaf.html">furniture</a>.</span></p>
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@@ -36,12 +36,12 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Inside of my memory, the poem is another memory.<br />The air up here is thin, but the wind blows harder<br />than anywhere else I know. It threatens to rip<br />my body away, like <a href="angeltoabraham.html">an angel of death</a>, to the stars.</p>
-            <p>In Arizona, I thought I would forget the rain,<br />forget its sound on a roof like a hard wind, forget<br />its smell like a far away ocean. Luckily for me<br />it rains here. Luckily, because I forget too easily.</p>
-            <p>In a dream, <a href="father.html">my father is caught by a riptide</a> off-shore.<br />He’s pulled far out, far enough that the shoreline’s<br />a line in his <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">memory</a> on the horizon. I can see him<br />swimming, hand over hand, pulling his small weight</p>
-            <p>back to land. I see him as <a href="shipwright.html">another shipwreck</a> victim,<br />coughing sand and seawater, beard woven with seaweed.<br />I see him laying there a long time. I see all this<br />as he tells me the story, years later, the riptide</p>
-            <p>only a <a href="100-lines.html">ghost</a> in his memory, I only a child falling<br />asleep. My mother’s making mayonnaise rolls<br />in the kitchen, a recipe I’ll send for years later,<br />in Arizona, in the monsoon season, when my thirst</p>
-            <p>pulls me back home, my memory’s lonesome twinkle<br />like <a href="finding-the-lion.html">stars above the mountains</a>. I’ll send for it<br />and try to make them, but in the thin air they’ll<br />crumble into dust like desert air, like a memory.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Inside of my memory, the poem is another memory.</span><span class="line">The air up here is thin, but the wind blows harder</span><span class="line">than anywhere else I know. It threatens to rip</span><span class="line">my body away, like <a href="angeltoabraham.html">an angel of death</a>, to the stars.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">In Arizona, I thought I would forget the rain,</span><span class="line">forget its sound on a roof like a hard wind, forget</span><span class="line">its smell like a far away ocean. Luckily for me</span><span class="line">it rains here. Luckily, because I forget too easily.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">In a dream, <a href="father.html">my father is caught by a riptide</a> off-shore.</span><span class="line">He’s pulled far out, far enough that the shoreline’s</span><span class="line">a line in his <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">memory</a> on the horizon. I can see him</span><span class="line">swimming, hand over hand, pulling his small weight</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">back to land. I see him as <a href="shipwright.html">another shipwreck</a> victim,</span><span class="line">coughing sand and seawater, beard woven with seaweed.</span><span class="line">I see him laying there a long time. I see all this</span><span class="line">as he tells me the story, years later, the riptide</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">only a <a href="100-lines.html">ghost</a> in his memory, I only a child falling</span><span class="line">asleep. My mother’s making mayonnaise rolls</span><span class="line">in the kitchen, a recipe I’ll send for years later,</span><span class="line">in Arizona, in the monsoon season, when my thirst</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">pulls me back home, my memory’s lonesome twinkle</span><span class="line">like <a href="finding-the-lion.html">stars above the mountains</a>. I’ll send for it</span><span class="line">and try to make them, but in the thin air they’ll</span><span class="line">crumble into dust like desert air, like a memory.</span></p>
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@@ -36,14 +36,14 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>When Ronald McDonald takes off his <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">striped shirt</a>,<br />his coveralls, his painted face: when he no longer looks<br />like anyone or anything special, sitting next to women</p>
-            <p>in bars or standing in the aisle at the grocery,<br />is he no longer Ronald? Is he no longer happy to kick<br />a soccer ball around with the kids in the park,</p>
-            <p>is he suddenly unable to enjoy the french fries<br />he gets for his fifty percent off? I’d like to think<br />that he takes Ronald off like a shirt, hangs him</p>
-            <p>in a closet where he breathes darkly in the musk.<br />I’d like to believe that we are able to slough off selves<br />like old skin and still retain some base self.</p>
-            <p>Of course we all know this is not what happens.<br />The Ronald leering at women drunkenly is the same who<br />the next day kicks at a ball the size of a head.</p>
-            <p>He is the same that hugs his children at night,<br />who has sex with his wife on the weekends when they’re<br />not so tired to make it work, who smiles holding</p>
-            <p>a basket of fries in front of a field. He cannot<br />take off the facepaint or the <a href="roughgloves.html">yellow gloves</a>. They are<br />stuck to him like so many feathers with the tar</p>
-            <p>of his everyday associations. His plight is that<br />of everyone’s—we are what we do who we are.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">When Ronald McDonald takes off his <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">striped shirt</a>,</span><span class="line">his coveralls, his painted face: when he no longer looks</span><span class="line">like anyone or anything special, sitting next to women</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">in bars or standing in the aisle at the grocery,</span><span class="line">is he no longer Ronald? Is he no longer happy to kick</span><span class="line">a soccer ball around with the kids in the park,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">is he suddenly unable to enjoy the french fries</span><span class="line">he gets for his fifty percent off? I’d like to think</span><span class="line">that he takes Ronald off like a shirt, hangs him</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">in a closet where he breathes darkly in the musk.</span><span class="line">I’d like to believe that we are able to slough off selves</span><span class="line">like old skin and still retain some base self.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Of course we all know this is not what happens.</span><span class="line">The Ronald leering at women drunkenly is the same who</span><span class="line">the next day kicks at a ball the size of a head.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">He is the same that hugs his children at night,</span><span class="line">who has sex with his wife on the weekends when they’re</span><span class="line">not so tired to make it work, who smiles holding</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">a basket of fries in front of a field. He cannot</span><span class="line">take off the facepaint or the <a href="roughgloves.html">yellow gloves</a>. They are</span><span class="line">stuck to him like so many feathers with the tar</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">of his everyday associations. His plight is that</span><span class="line">of everyone’s—we are what we do who we are.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I lost my hands &amp; knit replacement ones<br />from <a href="poetry-time.html">spiders’ threads</a>, stronger than steel but soft<br />as lambs’ wool. Catching as they do on nails<br />&amp; your collarbone, you don’t seem to like<br />their rough warm presence on your <a href="feedingtheraven.html">cheek or thigh</a>.<br />I’ve asked you if you minded, you’ve said no<br />(your face a table laid with burnt meat, bread<br />so stale it could <a href="weplayedthosegamestoo.html">break a hand</a>). Remember<br />your senile mother’s face above that table?<br />I’d say she got the meaning of that look.<br />You’d rather not be touched by these rough gloves,<br />the only way I have to knit a love<br />against whatever winters we may enter<br />like a silkworm in a spider’s blackened <a href="serengeti.html">maw</a>.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I lost my hands &amp; knit replacement ones</span><span class="line">from <a href="poetry-time.html">spiders’ threads</a>, stronger than steel but soft</span><span class="line">as lambs’ wool. Catching as they do on nails</span><span class="line">&amp; your collarbone, you don’t seem to like</span><span class="line">their rough warm presence on your <a href="feedingtheraven.html">cheek or thigh</a>.</span><span class="line">I’ve asked you if you minded, you’ve said no</span><span class="line">(your face a table laid with burnt meat, bread</span><span class="line">so stale it could <a href="weplayedthosegamestoo.html">break a hand</a>). Remember</span><span class="line">your senile mother’s face above that table?</span><span class="line">I’d say she got the meaning of that look.</span><span class="line">You’d rather not be touched by these rough gloves,</span><span class="line">the only way I have to knit a love</span><span class="line">against whatever winters we may enter</span><span class="line">like a silkworm in a spider’s blackened <a href="serengeti.html">maw</a>.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,13 +36,13 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>On your desk I set a tangerine:<br />a relic of a <a href="january.html">winter</a> quickly passing.</p>
-            <p>I’m reminded, fiercely, of a summer:<br />I watched the <a href="death-zone.html">cemetery grass</a> on my stomach.</p>
-            <p>You hate the wind <a href="building.html">blowing through buildings</a>:<br />the coldness of fire, blister of a mountain stream.</p>
-            <p>When you broke down that night: your aunt / you<br />never have been / <a href="the-night-we-met.html">you shook that night</a> /</p>
-            <p>Seasonal affective disorder is real: you<br /><a href="last-bastion.html">mutter under your breath on the highway</a>.</p>
-            <p>The ant carries an orange peel past a headstone:<br />it carries her nearly as often.</p>
-            <p>I set a tangerine on your desk:<br />an engagement ring, winter-returned.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">On your desk I set a tangerine:</span><span class="line">a relic of a <a href="january.html">winter</a> quickly passing.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I’m reminded, fiercely, of a summer:</span><span class="line">I watched the <a href="death-zone.html">cemetery grass</a> on my stomach.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">You hate the wind <a href="building.html">blowing through buildings</a>:</span><span class="line">the coldness of fire, blister of a mountain stream.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">When you broke down that night: your aunt / you</span><span class="line">never have been / <a href="the-night-we-met.html">you shook that night</a> /</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Seasonal affective disorder is real: you</span><span class="line"><a href="last-bastion.html">mutter under your breath on the highway</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">The ant carries an orange peel past a headstone:</span><span class="line">it carries her nearly as often.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I set a tangerine on your desk:</span><span class="line">an engagement ring, winter-returned.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,10 +36,10 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I only write poems on <a href="stagnant.html">the bus</a> anymore.<br />I sit far in the back to be alone.<br />I mark black things on white things in a black thing.<br />I try to make sense of it.</p>
-            <p>Every time I see a plastic bag in the wind I think:<br /><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qssvnjj5Moo">This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.</a><br />Most of my life I relate to something on the TV:<br />This is how I try to make sense of it.</p>
-            <p>The Talking Heads song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9r7X3f2gFz4">“Stop Making Sense”</a><br />is about a girlfriend caught cheating and willed oblivion.<br />The song’s real title is “Girlfriend is Better”<br />but <a href="the-night-we-met.html">lying</a> about it is a way I try to make sense of it.</p>
-            <p>The day after I lost her I found you again.<br />Your face made a plastic bag of my heart.<br />Your eyes were <a href="cold-wind.html">the wind</a> pushing the bus forward.<br />I couldn’t make sense of it.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I only write poems on <a href="stagnant.html">the bus</a> anymore.</span><span class="line">I sit far in the back to be alone.</span><span class="line">I mark black things on white things in a black thing.</span><span class="line">I try to make sense of it.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Every time I see a plastic bag in the wind I think:</span><span class="line"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qssvnjj5Moo">This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.</a></span><span class="line">Most of my life I relate to something on the TV:</span><span class="line">This is how I try to make sense of it.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">The Talking Heads song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9r7X3f2gFz4">“Stop Making Sense”</a></span><span class="line">is about a girlfriend caught cheating and willed oblivion.</span><span class="line">The song’s real title is “Girlfriend is Better”</span><span class="line">but <a href="the-night-we-met.html">lying</a> about it is a way I try to make sense of it.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">The day after I lost her I found you again.</span><span class="line">Your face made a plastic bag of my heart.</span><span class="line">Your eyes were <a href="cold-wind.html">the wind</a> pushing the bus forward.</span><span class="line">I couldn’t make sense of it.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>The self is a serengeti<br />a wide grassland with baobab trees<br />reaching their roots deep into earth<br />like a child into a clay pot<br />A wind blows there or seems to blow<br />if he holds it up to his ear the air shifts<br />like stones in a stream uncovering a crawfish<br />it finds another hiding place watching you<br />Its eyes are blacker than wind<br />on the serengeti they are the <a href="onformalpoetry.html">eyes of a predator</a><br />they are coming toward you or receding<br />a storm cloud builds on the horizon<br />Are you <a href="squirrel.html">running</a> toward the rain or away from it<br />Do you stand still and crouch hoping for silence</p>
+            <p><span class="line">The self is a serengeti</span><span class="line">a wide grassland with baobab trees</span><span class="line">reaching their roots deep into earth</span><span class="line">like a child into a clay pot</span><span class="line">A wind blows there or seems to blow</span><span class="line">if he holds it up to his ear the air shifts</span><span class="line">like stones in a stream uncovering a crawfish</span><span class="line">it finds another hiding place watching you</span><span class="line">Its eyes are blacker than wind</span><span class="line">on the serengeti they are the <a href="onformalpoetry.html">eyes of a predator</a></span><span class="line">they are coming toward you or receding</span><span class="line">a storm cloud builds on the horizon</span><span class="line">Are you <a href="squirrel.html">running</a> toward the rain or away from it</span><span class="line">Do you stand still and crouch hoping for silence</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>He builds a ship as if it were the last thing<br />holding him together, as if, when he stops,<br />his body will fall onto the plate-glass water<br />and shatter into sand. To keep his morale up<br />he whistles and sings, but the wind whistles <a href="apollo11.html">louder</a><br />and taunts him: Your ship will build itself<br />if you throw yourself into the sea; time<br />has a way of growing your beard for you.<br />Soon, you’ll find yourself on a rocking chair<br />on some porch made from your ship’s timbers.<br />The window behind you is made from a sail, thick<br />canvas, and no one inside will hear your calling<br />for milk or a chamberpot. Your children<br />will have all sailed to the New World and left you.<br />But he tries not to listen, continues to hammer<br />nail after nail into timber after timber,<br />but the wind <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">finally blows</a> him into the growling ocean<br />and the ship falls apart on its own.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">He builds a ship as if it were the last thing</span><span class="line">holding him together, as if, when he stops,</span><span class="line">his body will fall onto the plate-glass water</span><span class="line">and shatter into sand. To keep his morale up</span><span class="line">he whistles and sings, but the wind whistles <a href="apollo11.html">louder</a></span><span class="line">and taunts him: Your ship will build itself</span><span class="line">if you throw yourself into the sea; time</span><span class="line">has a way of growing your beard for you.</span><span class="line">Soon, you’ll find yourself on a rocking chair</span><span class="line">on some porch made from your ship’s timbers.</span><span class="line">The window behind you is made from a sail, thick</span><span class="line">canvas, and no one inside will hear your calling</span><span class="line">for milk or a chamberpot. Your children</span><span class="line">will have all sailed to the New World and left you.</span><span class="line">But he tries not to listen, continues to hammer</span><span class="line">nail after nail into timber after timber,</span><span class="line">but the wind <a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">finally blows</a> him into the growling ocean</span><span class="line">and the ship falls apart on its own.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -44,13 +44,13 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>If Justin Bieber isn’t going for the sixteenth<br />chapel, I’m not either. I admit he is my role<br />model. He’s so current, so fresh and so new,<br />and Michelangelo is so old, his art so dated.<br />Where is the love in those old paintings? All<br />I see is <a href="creation-myth.html">creation</a>, <a href="movingsideways.html">judgment</a>, and <a href="deathstrumpet.html">death</a>—</p>
-            <p>and I don’t get the preoccupation with death.<br />I’m about life! Ever since my sixteenth<br />birthday, when me and my two sisters all<br />nearly died when the car I was driving rolled<br />into a creek. Even though I’ve <a href="riptide_memory.html">forgotten the date</a>,<br />I think it keeps me thinking on the new,</p>
-            <p>something Biebs would be proud of if he knew.<br />I look at him, and see the <a href="death-zone.html">opposite of death</a><br />in his eyes, his youthful smile: though someday<br />he may <a href="i-am.html">be a father</a>, and later host a Sweet Sixteen<br />for his daughter (who I know he’ll buy a Rolls),<br />death will never find him. Living will be all</p>
-            <p>he’ll ever do, because it will be all<br />he’ll ever need to do. He is the eternal new,<br />the <a href="about-the-author.html">forever youth:</a> this is the simple <a href="words-meaning.html">role</a><br />of every celebrity, to let us forget death.<br />Bieber didn’t make a mistake on the Sistine<br />Chapel’s name. He merely showed that someday</p>
-            <p>all old names must go, that on some day<br />a name must die so that the thing, which is all<br />that matters, can stay as it was in the sixteenth<br />century: fresh, ostentatious, and brand new.<br />In a way, <a href="nothing-is-ever-over.html">the name becomes a Christ</a>, experiencing death<br />so the world doesn’t have to. But I am wary of this role</p>
-            <p>for a name. It seems a name gives meaning, rolls<br />the general idea together with the concrete, daily<br />toil of the mundane. Are not life and death<br />intertwined? Is not everything tied up all<br />with everything? I guess I’m saying the new<br />necessarily comes from the old, as every sixteen-</p>
-            <p>year-old has a parent. <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">Life rolls to death</a>, and all<br />is tied together. Each day is born of night, and dies so new<br />morning can occur. Even the sixteenth chapel holds death.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">If Justin Bieber isn’t going for the sixteenth</span><span class="line">chapel, I’m not either. I admit he is my role</span><span class="line">model. He’s so current, so fresh and so new,</span><span class="line">and Michelangelo is so old, his art so dated.</span><span class="line">Where is the love in those old paintings? All</span><span class="line">I see is <a href="creation-myth.html">creation</a>, <a href="movingsideways.html">judgment</a>, and <a href="deathstrumpet.html">death</a>—</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">and I don’t get the preoccupation with death.</span><span class="line">I’m about life! Ever since my sixteenth</span><span class="line">birthday, when me and my two sisters all</span><span class="line">nearly died when the car I was driving rolled</span><span class="line">into a creek. Even though I’ve <a href="riptide_memory.html">forgotten the date</a>,</span><span class="line">I think it keeps me thinking on the new,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">something Biebs would be proud of if he knew.</span><span class="line">I look at him, and see the <a href="death-zone.html">opposite of death</a></span><span class="line">in his eyes, his youthful smile: though someday</span><span class="line">he may <a href="i-am.html">be a father</a>, and later host a Sweet Sixteen</span><span class="line">for his daughter (who I know he’ll buy a Rolls),</span><span class="line">death will never find him. Living will be all</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">he’ll ever do, because it will be all</span><span class="line">he’ll ever need to do. He is the eternal new,</span><span class="line">the <a href="about-the-author.html">forever youth:</a> this is the simple <a href="words-meaning.html">role</a></span><span class="line">of every celebrity, to let us forget death.</span><span class="line">Bieber didn’t make a mistake on the Sistine</span><span class="line">Chapel’s name. He merely showed that someday</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">all old names must go, that on some day</span><span class="line">a name must die so that the thing, which is all</span><span class="line">that matters, can stay as it was in the sixteenth</span><span class="line">century: fresh, ostentatious, and brand new.</span><span class="line">In a way, <a href="nothing-is-ever-over.html">the name becomes a Christ</a>, experiencing death</span><span class="line">so the world doesn’t have to. But I am wary of this role</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">for a name. It seems a name gives meaning, rolls</span><span class="line">the general idea together with the concrete, daily</span><span class="line">toil of the mundane. Are not life and death</span><span class="line">intertwined? Is not everything tied up all</span><span class="line">with everything? I guess I’m saying the new</span><span class="line">necessarily comes from the old, as every sixteen-</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">year-old has a parent. <a href="ouroboros_memory.html">Life rolls to death</a>, and all</span><span class="line">is tied together. Each day is born of night, and dies so new</span><span class="line">morning can occur. Even the sixteenth chapel holds death.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>in mammals the ratio between bladder size<br />and urethra is such that it takes<br />all of them the same time to piss. Take<br />for example the fact that Fibonnacci<br />numbers show up everywhere. How can you<br />look at this at all of this all of<br />these facts and tell me to my face there<br />is no God? And yet there isn’t<br />you murmer quietly into my ear over<br />and over like a low tide sounding<br />its lonely waves on an abandoned beach.<br />The ocean that birthed us holds us<br />still. We are tied, you and I, together<br />in her arms. The <a href="moon-drowning.html">moon, caring father,</a><br />looks down from a dispassionate sky.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">in mammals the ratio between bladder size</span><span class="line">and urethra is such that it takes</span><span class="line">all of them the same time to piss. Take</span><span class="line">for example the fact that Fibonnacci</span><span class="line">numbers show up everywhere. How can you</span><span class="line">look at this at all of this all of</span><span class="line">these facts and tell me to my face there</span><span class="line">is no God? And yet there isn’t</span><span class="line">you murmer quietly into my ear over</span><span class="line">and over like a low tide sounding</span><span class="line">its lonely waves on an abandoned beach.</span><span class="line">The ocean that birthed us holds us</span><span class="line">still. We are tied, you and I, together</span><span class="line">in her arms. The <a href="moon-drowning.html">moon, caring father,</a></span><span class="line">looks down from a dispassionate sky.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>My body is attached to your body by a thin spittle of thought.<br />When you turn away from me, my thought is broken<br />and forms anew with something else. Ideas are drool.<br />Beauty has been slobbered over far too long. <a href="howithappened.html">God</a><br />is a tidal wave of bodily fluid. Even the flea has some<br />vestigial wetness. We live in a world fleshy and dark,<br />and moist as a nostril. Is conciousness only a watery-eyed<br />romantic, crying softly into his <a href="lovesong.html">shirt-sleeve</a>? Is not reason<br />a square-jawed businessman with a briefcase full of memory?<br />I want to kiss the world to make it mine. I want to become<br />a Judas to reality, betray it with the wetness of emotion.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">My body is attached to your body by a thin spittle of thought.</span><span class="line">When you turn away from me, my thought is broken</span><span class="line">and forms anew with something else. Ideas are drool.</span><span class="line">Beauty has been slobbered over far too long. <a href="howithappened.html">God</a></span><span class="line">is a tidal wave of bodily fluid. Even the flea has some</span><span class="line">vestigial wetness. We live in a world fleshy and dark,</span><span class="line">and moist as a nostril. Is conciousness only a watery-eyed</span><span class="line">romantic, crying softly into his <a href="lovesong.html">shirt-sleeve</a>? Is not reason</span><span class="line">a square-jawed businessman with a briefcase full of memory?</span><span class="line">I want to kiss the world to make it mine. I want to become</span><span class="line">a Judas to reality, betray it with the wetness of emotion.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>He is so full in himself:<br />how far down the branch to run,<br />how long to jump, when to grab the air<br />and catch in it and turn, and land on branch<br />so gracefully it’s like dying, alone<br />and warm in a bed next to a summer window<br />and the <a href="mountain.html">birds singing</a>. And on that branch there<br />is the squirrel dancing among the branches<br />and you think <em>What if he fell?</em> but he won’t<br />because he’s a squirrel and that’s what<br />they do, <a href="movingsideways.html">dance</a> and never fall. It was erased<br />long ago from the squirrel, even<br />the possibility of falling was erased<br />from his being by the slow inexorable evolution<br />of squirrels, that is why all squirrels<br />are so full in themselves, full in who they are.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">He is so full in himself:</span><span class="line">how far down the branch to run,</span><span class="line">how long to jump, when to grab the air</span><span class="line">and catch in it and turn, and land on branch</span><span class="line">so gracefully it’s like dying, alone</span><span class="line">and warm in a bed next to a summer window</span><span class="line">and the <a href="mountain.html">birds singing</a>. And on that branch there</span><span class="line">is the squirrel dancing among the branches</span><span class="line">and you think <em>What if he fell?</em> but he won’t</span><span class="line">because he’s a squirrel and that’s what</span><span class="line">they do, <a href="movingsideways.html">dance</a> and never fall. It was erased</span><span class="line">long ago from the squirrel, even</span><span class="line">the possibility of falling was erased</span><span class="line">from his being by the slow inexorable evolution</span><span class="line">of squirrels, that is why all squirrels</span><span class="line">are so full in themselves, full in who they are.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -49,8 +49,8 @@
             </section>
             <section id="dimorphic" class="level2 verse">
             <h2>II. Dimorphic</h2>
-            <p><a href="seasonal-affective-disorder.html">Oranges</a>. Poison. A compromise<br />between Mary &amp; <a href="spittle.html">Judas</a>. Blue<br />baby blankets swaddling greedy lawyers.</p>
-            <p>Can one truly describe an emotion?<br />I cut my ankle with a razor blade.<br />I can only go one at a time. Humanity<br />has a seething mass of eels<br />for a brain, mating in the water so forcefully<br />that it could <a href="moon-drowning.html">drown you under the moon</a>.</p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="seasonal-affective-disorder.html">Oranges</a>. Poison. A compromise</span><span class="line">between Mary &amp; <a href="spittle.html">Judas</a>. Blue</span><span class="line">baby blankets swaddling greedy lawyers.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Can one truly describe an emotion?</span><span class="line">I cut my ankle with a razor blade.</span><span class="line">I can only go one at a time. Humanity</span><span class="line">has a seething mass of eels</span><span class="line">for a brain, mating in the water so forcefully</span><span class="line">that it could <a href="moon-drowning.html">drown you under the moon</a>.</span></p>
             </section>
             <section id="declaration-of-poetry" class="level2">
             <h2>III. Declaration of Poetry</h2>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>It was a <a href="hard-game.html">gamble</a><br />I lost—thought I could get closer<br />than the library, stayed<br />on past the admin building,<br />back down the hill to my beginning,<br />the driver’s second-to-last stop.<br /><a href="lappel-du-vide.html">I have to walk now</a>,<br />through the wind and sun, past<br /><a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">traffic</a> moving merrily along<br />taking their own gambles<br />staying on or getting off<br />too soon.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">It was a <a href="hard-game.html">gamble</a></span><span class="line">I lost—thought I could get closer</span><span class="line">than the library, stayed</span><span class="line">on past the admin building,</span><span class="line">back down the hill to my beginning,</span><span class="line">the driver’s second-to-last stop.</span><span class="line"><a href="lappel-du-vide.html">I have to walk now</a>,</span><span class="line">through the wind and sun, past</span><span class="line"><a href="theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html">traffic</a> moving merrily along</span><span class="line">taking their own gambles</span><span class="line">staying on or getting off</span><span class="line">too soon.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -300,6 +300,16 @@ a.footnoteRef {
     display: inline-block;
     text-align: left;
 }
+.verse p {
+    margin-bottom: 1em;
+    margin-top: 1em;
+}
+.verse .line {
+    display: block;
+    margin: 0;
+    text-indent: -1em;
+    margin-left: 1em;
+}
 /* .verse }}} */
 /* PROJECT CSS */
 /* #COVER {{{ */
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>This poem is dry like <a href="time-looks-up-to-the-sky.html">chapped lips</a>.<br /><a href="no-nothing.html">It is hard as teeth</a>—hear the tapping?<br />It is the swan song of beauty, as all<br />swan songs are. <a href="poetry-time.html">Reading</a> it, you are<br />puzzled, perhaps a little repulsed.<br />Swans do not have teeth, nor do they sing.<br />A honking over the cliff is all<br />they can do, and that they do<br />badly. You don’t know where I’m going.<br />You want to tell me, <a href="about-the-author.html">You are not you</a>.<br /><a href="swansong.html">You are the air the swan walks on.</a><br />You are the fringe of the curtain<br /><a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">that separates me from you</a>. I say<br />that you are no longer the temple,<br />that you have been through <a href="fire.html">fire</a><br />and are now less than ash. You are<br />the subtraction of yourself from<br />the world, <a href="finding-the-lion.html">the air without a swan</a>.<br />Together, we are each other. You<br />and I have both nothing and everything<br />at once, we own the world and nothing in it.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">This poem is dry like <a href="time-looks-up-to-the-sky.html">chapped lips</a>.</span><span class="line"><a href="no-nothing.html">It is hard as teeth</a>—hear the tapping?</span><span class="line">It is the swan song of beauty, as all</span><span class="line">swan songs are. <a href="poetry-time.html">Reading</a> it, you are</span><span class="line">puzzled, perhaps a little repulsed.</span><span class="line">Swans do not have teeth, nor do they sing.</span><span class="line">A honking over the cliff is all</span><span class="line">they can do, and that they do</span><span class="line">badly. You don’t know where I’m going.</span><span class="line">You want to tell me, <a href="about-the-author.html">You are not you</a>.</span><span class="line"><a href="swansong.html">You are the air the swan walks on.</a></span><span class="line">You are the fringe of the curtain</span><span class="line"><a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">that separates me from you</a>. I say</span><span class="line">that you are no longer the temple,</span><span class="line">that you have been through <a href="fire.html">fire</a></span><span class="line">and are now less than ash. You are</span><span class="line">the subtraction of yourself from</span><span class="line">the world, <a href="finding-the-lion.html">the air without a swan</a>.</span><span class="line">Together, we are each other. You</span><span class="line">and I have both nothing and everything</span><span class="line">at once, we own the world and nothing in it.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Swans fly overhead singing goodbye<br />to we <a href="howithappened.html">walkers of the earth</a>. You point<br />to them in formation, you tell me<br />you are not you. [You are the air the swans<br />walk on]<a href="swansong-alt.html">alt</a> as they journey like pilgrims<br />to a temple in the south. A curtain<br />there separates me from you, swans<br />from the air they fly through. I say<br />that you are no longer the temple,<br />that you have been through fire<br />and are now less than ash. You are<br />a <a href="moongone.html">mirror</a> of me, the <a href="deathstrumpet.html">air without a swan</a>.<br />Together, we are each other. You<br />and I have both nothing and everything<br />at once. We own the world and nothing in it.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Swans fly overhead singing goodbye</span><span class="line">to we <a href="howithappened.html">walkers of the earth</a>. You point</span><span class="line">to them in formation, you tell me</span><span class="line">you are not you. [You are the air the swans</span><span class="line">walk on]<a href="swansong-alt.html">alt</a> as they journey like pilgrims</span><span class="line">to a temple in the south. A curtain</span><span class="line">there separates me from you, swans</span><span class="line">from the air they fly through. I say</span><span class="line">that you are no longer the temple,</span><span class="line">that you have been through fire</span><span class="line">and are now less than ash. You are</span><span class="line">a <a href="moongone.html">mirror</a> of me, the <a href="deathstrumpet.html">air without a swan</a>.</span><span class="line">Together, we are each other. You</span><span class="line">and I have both nothing and everything</span><span class="line">at once. We own the world and nothing in it.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,11 +36,11 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>My head is <a href="found-typewriter-poem.html">full of fire</a>, my tongue swollen,<br />pregnant with all the things I should’ve said<br />but didn’t. Last night, we met each other<br />in the dark, remember? You told me time was</p>
-            <p>pregnant with all things. I should’ve said<br />something, to draw you out from your place<br />in the dark. Remember, you told me time was<br />only an illusion, <a href="riptide_memory.html">and memory was</a> only</p>
-            <p>something to draw. You, out from your place,<br />I out from mine, that night, I believed in you.<br />Only illusion and memory were one, lying<br /><a href="early.html">down on your couch</a>, through the night you drew</p>
-            <p>me out from mine. That night, I believed in you<br />when you told me you loved me. I lay<br />down on your couch. Through the night, you drew<br />a picture of our <a href="100-lines.html">future together</a>.</p>
-            <p>When you told me you loved me, I lied<br /><a href="apollo11.html">in the dark</a>. Remember, you told me time was<br /><a href="last-passenger.html">a picture of our future</a> together.<br />My head is full of fire, <a href="plant.html">my tongue swollen</a>.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">My head is <a href="found-typewriter-poem.html">full of fire</a>, my tongue swollen,</span><span class="line">pregnant with all the things I should’ve said</span><span class="line">but didn’t. Last night, we met each other</span><span class="line">in the dark, remember? You told me time was</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">pregnant with all things. I should’ve said</span><span class="line">something, to draw you out from your place</span><span class="line">in the dark. Remember, you told me time was</span><span class="line">only an illusion, <a href="riptide_memory.html">and memory was</a> only</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">something to draw. You, out from your place,</span><span class="line">I out from mine, that night, I believed in you.</span><span class="line">Only illusion and memory were one, lying</span><span class="line"><a href="early.html">down on your couch</a>, through the night you drew</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">me out from mine. That night, I believed in you</span><span class="line">when you told me you loved me. I lay</span><span class="line">down on your couch. Through the night, you drew</span><span class="line">a picture of our <a href="100-lines.html">future together</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">When you told me you loved me, I lied</span><span class="line"><a href="apollo11.html">in the dark</a>. Remember, you told me time was</span><span class="line"><a href="last-passenger.html">a picture of our future</a> together.</span><span class="line">My head is full of fire, <a href="plant.html">my tongue swollen</a>.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,11 +36,11 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Waiting for a reading to start<br />when there’s nobody coming anyway<br />is like waiting <a href="cold-wind.html">for the tide</a><br />to make some meaning of the beach.</p>
-            <p>The sea doesn’t know or care<br />what the beach even is, let alone<br />its cares or its troubles, its<br />little nagging under-the-skin annoyances<br /><a href="real-writer.html">that make the beach the beach</a>.</p>
-            <p>Sandworms, for example, or those crabs<br />with big pincers on one side<br />but not the other. Those really get<br />the beach’s gander up, but the sea<br />doesn’t care. The sea</p>
-            <p>only wants to <a href="plant.html">caress</a> the beach<br />with its <a href="something-simple.html">soft arms</a>, to tell the beach<br />how much it’s loved by the sea,<br />that complex of water, salt, and<br />the moon’s gravity, the mercury<br />rising up and down slowly, like a <a href="serengeti.html">yawn</a>.</p>
-            <p>The sea only cares about itself.<br />The beach lays there and takes it.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Waiting for a reading to start</span><span class="line">when there’s nobody coming anyway</span><span class="line">is like waiting <a href="cold-wind.html">for the tide</a></span><span class="line">to make some meaning of the beach.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">The sea doesn’t know or care</span><span class="line">what the beach even is, let alone</span><span class="line">its cares or its troubles, its</span><span class="line">little nagging under-the-skin annoyances</span><span class="line"><a href="real-writer.html">that make the beach the beach</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">Sandworms, for example, or those crabs</span><span class="line">with big pincers on one side</span><span class="line">but not the other. Those really get</span><span class="line">the beach’s gander up, but the sea</span><span class="line">doesn’t care. The sea</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">only wants to <a href="plant.html">caress</a> the beach</span><span class="line">with its <a href="something-simple.html">soft arms</a>, to tell the beach</span><span class="line">how much it’s loved by the sea,</span><span class="line">that complex of water, salt, and</span><span class="line">the moon’s gravity, the mercury</span><span class="line">rising up and down slowly, like a <a href="serengeti.html">yawn</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">The sea only cares about itself.</span><span class="line">The beach lays there and takes it.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>We found your <a href="lovesong.html">shirt</a> deep in the dark water,<br />caught on the clothesline of sleeping pills.<br />Your head on the shore was streaming tears<br />like sleeves or the coronas of saints saved<br />from fire. The burning bush began crying<br />like a child who misses his mother. Traffic<br />slammed shut like an eye. God’s mean <a href="roughgloves.html">left hook</a><br />knocked us out, and we began swimming.<br />Bruises bloomed like algae on a lake.<br />Your <a href="angeltoabraham.html">father</a> beat your chest and screamed<br />for someone to open a window. The air<br />stopped breathing. Fish clogged its gills.<br />Birds sang too loudly, trying to drown out<br />your father’s cries, but all their sweetness<br />was not enough. No polite noises will be made<br />anymore, he told us, clawing your breastbone.<br />He opened your heart to air again. Camels<br />flowed from you both like water from the rock.<br />God spoke up, but nobody listened to him.<br />We hung you up on the line to dry.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">We found your <a href="lovesong.html">shirt</a> deep in the dark water,</span><span class="line">caught on the clothesline of sleeping pills.</span><span class="line">Your head on the shore was streaming tears</span><span class="line">like sleeves or the coronas of saints saved</span><span class="line">from fire. The burning bush began crying</span><span class="line">like a child who misses his mother. Traffic</span><span class="line">slammed shut like an eye. God’s mean <a href="roughgloves.html">left hook</a></span><span class="line">knocked us out, and we began swimming.</span><span class="line">Bruises bloomed like algae on a lake.</span><span class="line">Your <a href="angeltoabraham.html">father</a> beat your chest and screamed</span><span class="line">for someone to open a window. The air</span><span class="line">stopped breathing. Fish clogged its gills.</span><span class="line">Birds sang too loudly, trying to drown out</span><span class="line">your father’s cries, but all their sweetness</span><span class="line">was not enough. No polite noises will be made</span><span class="line">anymore, he told us, clawing your breastbone.</span><span class="line">He opened your heart to air again. Camels</span><span class="line">flowed from you both like water from the rock.</span><span class="line">God spoke up, but nobody listened to him.</span><span class="line">We hung you up on the line to dry.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,12 +36,12 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I wish I’d kissed you when I had the chance.<br />Your face hovering there, so near to mine,<br />your mouth pursed—what word was it you pronounced?</p>
-            <p>When I think about you, <a href="howithappened.html">something in my pants</a><br />tightens, and my thoughts run, and I realize<br />I should’ve kissed you when I had the chance.</p>
-            <p>I want that moment never to be past<br />like Keats’s lovers on the grecian urn:<br />his mouth pursed, her figure turned to pronounce</p>
-            <p>her hips in ways that are not feminist.<br />But time strolls mildly on, not glancing at my<br />wish to kiss you when I had the chance,</p>
-            <p>whispered like a <a href="about-the-author.html">beggar to a prince</a><br />outside his palace: time looks up to the sky,<br />purses his lips, and hears what I pronounce</p>
-            <p>but pays it little mind. If he would just<br />turn back, bend down, and follow my design,<br />I would have kissed you when I had the chance,<br />as your mouth pursed and you pronounced goodbye.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I wish I’d kissed you when I had the chance.</span><span class="line">Your face hovering there, so near to mine,</span><span class="line">your mouth pursed—what word was it you pronounced?</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">When I think about you, <a href="howithappened.html">something in my pants</a></span><span class="line">tightens, and my thoughts run, and I realize</span><span class="line">I should’ve kissed you when I had the chance.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I want that moment never to be past</span><span class="line">like Keats’s lovers on the grecian urn:</span><span class="line">his mouth pursed, her figure turned to pronounce</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">her hips in ways that are not feminist.</span><span class="line">But time strolls mildly on, not glancing at my</span><span class="line">wish to kiss you when I had the chance,</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">whispered like a <a href="about-the-author.html">beggar to a prince</a></span><span class="line">outside his palace: time looks up to the sky,</span><span class="line">purses his lips, and hears what I pronounce</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">but pays it little mind. If he would just</span><span class="line">turn back, bend down, and follow my design,</span><span class="line">I would have kissed you when I had the chance,</span><span class="line">as your mouth pursed and you pronounced goodbye.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,10 +36,10 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>There are more modern ideals of beauty<br />than yours, young padowan. Jessica has<br />some assets, that I’ll give you easily,<br />but in my women I prefer pizzazz.</p>
-            <p>I don’t want to bring you down, or make you think<br /><a href="deathstrumpet.html">that your perfected woman isn’t so</a>.<br />It’s just that, like Adam said, 2006<br />has come and gone. What did she do</p>
-            <p>in that year anyway? IMDB<br />has, surprisingly, none, though in ’05<br />she’s in four titles. <em>Sin City</em><br />I’ve never seen, although from many I’ve</p>
-            <p>heard it’s good. But it’s still irrelevant—<br />no matter how comely, she lacks talent.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">There are more modern ideals of beauty</span><span class="line">than yours, young padowan. Jessica has</span><span class="line">some assets, that I’ll give you easily,</span><span class="line">but in my women I prefer pizzazz.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">I don’t want to bring you down, or make you think</span><span class="line"><a href="deathstrumpet.html">that your perfected woman isn’t so</a>.</span><span class="line">It’s just that, like Adam said, 2006</span><span class="line">has come and gone. What did she do</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">in that year anyway? IMDB</span><span class="line">has, surprisingly, none, though in ’05</span><span class="line">she’s in four titles. <em>Sin City</em></span><span class="line">I’ve never seen, although from many I’ve</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">heard it’s good. But it’s still irrelevant—</span><span class="line">no matter how comely, she lacks talent.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -0,0 +1,15 @@
+import Text.Pandoc.JSON
+import Data.List.Split
+
+main :: IO ()
+main = toJSONFilter transformVerseParas
+
+transformVerseParas :: Block -> Block
+transformVerseParas (Para xs)
+    | LineBreak `elem` xs = Para (addLineSpans xs)
+    | otherwise = Para xs
+transformVerseParas x = x
+
+addLineSpans :: [Inline] -> [Inline]
+addLineSpans = map encloseInSpan . splitWhen (== LineBreak)
+    where encloseInSpan = Span("", ["line"], [])
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I can walk through the rain, <a href="collage-instrument.html">that rare occurrence</a><br />and never be hit by a drop. There is a space around me<br />that refuses to be <a href="lovesong.html">penetrated</a> by weather of any kind<br />be it rain or snow or sunshine. <a href="seasonal-affective-disorder.html">Is it cold I hear you</a><br />asking in your voice soft as a breeze. No it is not<br /><a href="cold-wind.html">particularly cold</a>. If I were to describe it as warm<br /><a href="todaniel.html">I would be lying as well</a>. If I were to pretend I heard<br />you, far-off, mirage, breeze on the horizon, <a href="no-nothing.html">no truth</a><br />would ever be said to have come from <a href="swansong-alt.html">my frozen lips</a>.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I can walk through the rain, <a href="collage-instrument.html">that rare occurrence</a></span><span class="line">and never be hit by a drop. There is a space around me</span><span class="line">that refuses to be <a href="lovesong.html">penetrated</a> by weather of any kind</span><span class="line">be it rain or snow or sunshine. <a href="seasonal-affective-disorder.html">Is it cold I hear you</a></span><span class="line">asking in your voice soft as a breeze. No it is not</span><span class="line"><a href="cold-wind.html">particularly cold</a>. If I were to describe it as warm</span><span class="line"><a href="todaniel.html">I would be lying as well</a>. If I were to pretend I heard</span><span class="line">you, far-off, mirage, breeze on the horizon, <a href="no-nothing.html">no truth</a></span><span class="line">would ever be said to have come from <a href="swansong-alt.html">my frozen lips</a>.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>I saw two Eskimo girls playing a game<br />blowing on each other’s’ vocal chords to make music<br />on the tundra. I thought about how<br />once we played the same game<br />and the sounds blowing over the chords of our throats<br />was the same as a wind over frozen prairie.<br />We are the Eskimo girls who played<br />the game that night to keep ourselves warm.<br />I run my hands over <a href="and.html">my daughter</a>’s<br />voicebox as she hums a song<br />about a seal and about killing the seal and about<br />skinning it and rendering the blubber<br />into clear oil to light lamps.<br />I remember you are my lamp. She remembers<br />you although you left before she arrived.<br />I can never tell her about you.<br />I will never be able to express that taste of your oil<br />as we <a href="spittle.html">pushed our throats together</a>.<br />I will never be able to say how<br />we share this blemish like conjoined twins.<br />I will fail you always to remember you.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">I saw two Eskimo girls playing a game</span><span class="line">blowing on each other’s’ vocal chords to make music</span><span class="line">on the tundra. I thought about how</span><span class="line">once we played the same game</span><span class="line">and the sounds blowing over the chords of our throats</span><span class="line">was the same as a wind over frozen prairie.</span><span class="line">We are the Eskimo girls who played</span><span class="line">the game that night to keep ourselves warm.</span><span class="line">I run my hands over <a href="and.html">my daughter</a>’s</span><span class="line">voicebox as she hums a song</span><span class="line">about a seal and about killing the seal and about</span><span class="line">skinning it and rendering the blubber</span><span class="line">into clear oil to light lamps.</span><span class="line">I remember you are my lamp. She remembers</span><span class="line">you although you left before she arrived.</span><span class="line">I can never tell her about you.</span><span class="line">I will never be able to express that taste of your oil</span><span class="line">as we <a href="spittle.html">pushed our throats together</a>.</span><span class="line">I will never be able to say how</span><span class="line">we share this blemish like conjoined twins.</span><span class="line">I will fail you always to remember you.</span></p>
         </section>
     </article>
     <nav>
@@ -40,7 +40,7 @@
             <p>In a bathroom I know there is a low thrumming that comes from the air ducts in the ceiling. It comforts me in the same way the smell of toilet-water calms my stomach, it is a sound so close to quiet, so close to the porcelain whiteness of the toilet, it pushes all other noise away. It is deafening quiet in its most real form, its most realizable form.</p>
             <p>The eggs on the floor, broken. Not the eggs in their journey to the floor or from the farm or from the hen on the farm, in the cage, glowing under fluorescent lights, its neighbors pressed to its body, rotten-smelling, grotesque. Not the fateful meeting with the floor. Not the long wait in darkness for the fluorescent dawn, cacophonous with pain and smell. None of this: the sunlight on the kitchen tile, the refrigerator softly humming, the eggs on the floor. The yolks glistening.</p>
             <p>I compose with music best. Under its meaninglessness <a href="music-433.html">I am able to hear the silence</a>, a different meaninglessness, a somehow-deeper meaninglessness, the inverse of repeating a word until it is only sound. I can hear the taboo, the never-spoken, unacknowledged. I write to drown its sound, with the scratching of my pen.</p>
-            <p>Silence lies underneath us all in the same way<br />the Nile has a river underneath ten times as large<br />(though this is an urban legend, apparently)<br /> I threw a party in my dream and went to the bathroom, down a long dark hallway. I began to leave and noticed the bathtub full of stuffed animals in a heap. I examined them each in turn: an elephant, a tiger, each backgrounded by white tile. A warthog sat at the top of the heap. It caught my eye, I stared, it slowly winked, sneering. I reached out my finger and poked it, like the Pillsbury Doughboy. It responded in kind, chuckling. I woke with a start, terrified. It had made no sound.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Silence lies underneath us all in the same way</span><span class="line">the Nile has a river underneath ten times as large</span><span class="line">(though this is an urban legend, apparently)</span><span class="line"> I threw a party in my dream and went to the bathroom, down a long dark hallway. I began to leave and noticed the bathtub full of stuffed animals in a heap. I examined them each in turn: an elephant, a tiger, each backgrounded by white tile. A warthog sat at the top of the heap. It caught my eye, I stared, it slowly winked, sneering. I reached out my finger and poked it, like the Pillsbury Doughboy. It responded in kind, chuckling. I woke with a start, terrified. It had made no sound.</span></p>
             <p>There are at least two kinds of silence, in the same way that there are at least two kinds of sadness. There is the silence of after, the staring, open-mouthed silence, the what-do-we-do-now silence. There is the silence of before, the still before rainfall, the just-woken-up.</p>
             <p>There is, now I’m thinking about it, the silence of between: the waiting room after the heart attack, after the phone call, after the hurried drive, the fast walking down hospital hallways, the finding the room, my family, their faces the silence of after, the TV quietly playing <em>Maurie</em>, the silence underneath that; the waiting room <em>before</em> the doctor comes in, tells us what happened, the chances, before my parents drive down, their three long hours in the car, before we become the Hospital People for five days, camped-out, loud, cackling, crying, doing crosswords, watching her die.</p>
             <p>The silence of wondering whether we could’ve known each other better.</p>
@@ -36,10 +36,10 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p>Your casserole dish takes the longest:<br />it has some baked-in crust from when you<br />cooked chicken last night. Washing it<br />allows me to think about this poem’s title<br />and the first few lines. Now that I’ve<br />written them down, I’ve <a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">forgotten the rest</a>.</p>
-            <p>While scraping at something with my finger-<br />nail, I catch myself wondering again whether<br />you’ll thank me for washing your dishes.<br />I realize that this would defeat the point<br />of my gesture, that this has destroyed<br />all good thoughts I’ve had about saying</p>
-            <p>“I’m sorry.” This, <a href="http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1703/">this is the reason</a> why<br />I am always apologizing: because I never<br />mean it, because there is always, in [some<br />attic]<a href="real-writer.html">attic</a>, a thought roaming that says, insists:</p>
-            <p>“I’ve done nothing wrong, and I deserve<br />all I can take, and more than that.“</p>
+            <p><span class="line">Your casserole dish takes the longest:</span><span class="line">it has some baked-in crust from when you</span><span class="line">cooked chicken last night. Washing it</span><span class="line">allows me to think about this poem’s title</span><span class="line">and the first few lines. Now that I’ve</span><span class="line">written them down, I’ve <a href="elegyforanalternateself.html">forgotten the rest</a>.</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">While scraping at something with my finger-</span><span class="line">nail, I catch myself wondering again whether</span><span class="line">you’ll thank me for washing your dishes.</span><span class="line">I realize that this would defeat the point</span><span class="line">of my gesture, that this has destroyed</span><span class="line">all good thoughts I’ve had about saying</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">“I’m sorry.” This, <a href="http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1703/">this is the reason</a> why</span><span class="line">I am always apologizing: because I never</span><span class="line">mean it, because there is always, in [some</span><span class="line">attic]<a href="real-writer.html">attic</a>, a thought roaming that says, insists:</span></p>
+            <p><span class="line">“I’ve done nothing wrong, and I deserve</span><span class="line">all I can take, and more than that.“</span></p>
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     </article>
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@@ -42,7 +42,7 @@
             <p>There’s still a problem with language, however, to which Hass speaks by the end of his poem, with those repetitions of “blackberry, blackberry, blackberry,” in that, as Jack Gilbert says in his poem “<a href="http://www.smith.edu/poetrycenter/poets/theforgottendialect.html">The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart</a>,” “How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, / but frightening that it does not quite.” There is still that “<a href="http://www.mrbauld.com/negcap.html">irritable reaching</a> after fact &amp; reason” that language, as communication, requires—I think Keats would agree that he wrote about a near-unattainable ideal in his letter that only Shakespeare and maybe Coleridge and a few others could achieve, this “Negative Capability.” Gilbert furthers Keats in asserting that no matter what we write, “the words / Get it wrong,” that utterance is itself that irritable reaching.</p>
             <p>In Gilbert’s poem, though, he does reach after something. In the second half of the poem he begins to imagine what the “mysterious Sumerian tablets” could be as poetry, instead of just “business records:”</p>
             <blockquote>
-            <p>[…] My joy is the same as twelve<br />Ethiopian goats standing in the morning light.<br />O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,<br />as grand as ripe barley under the wind’s labor.<br />Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts<br />of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred<br />pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what<br />my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this<br />desire in the dark.</p>
+            <p><span class="line">[…] My joy is the same as twelve</span><span class="line">Ethiopian goats standing in the morning light.</span><span class="line">O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,</span><span class="line">as grand as ripe barley under the wind’s labor.</span><span class="line">Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts</span><span class="line">of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred</span><span class="line">pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what</span><span class="line">my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this</span><span class="line">desire in the dark.</span></p>
             </blockquote>
             <p>This is my favorite part of the poem, and I think it’s because Gilbert, like Hass, reaches for the specific in the general; he brings huge ideas like the Lord or Love or Joy into the specific images of salt, copper, or honey, or like he says at the end of his poem: “What we feel most has / no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.” This, ultimately, is what Keats was getting at, and Hugo, too: that the real subject of any poetry is not capturable in the words of the poem, but that rather a poem speaks around its subject. To be honest, all <a href="art.html">art</a> may do this. What sets a poem apart is its honesty about that fact.</p>
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@@ -36,7 +36,7 @@
 
         
         <section class="content verse">
-            <p><a href="moon-drowning.html">The radio is screaming the man</a><br />on the radio will not be quiet he is<br />pushed far into the background<br />while some NPR talkers murmur over<br />his screaming he lost something<br />very important. He says it over<br />and over but they do not listen<br />they think of their children at home<br />lying <a href="in-bed.html">in bed</a> dreaming sweet<br />childhood one of them is staying over<br />at a friend’s house they are staying<br />up late they never want it to be over<br />not like the man. His life on the radio<br />will be the only one he ever has<br />his life it is wasted he’s being spoken over<br />such pain is in his voice. I wish you<br />could hear it. <a href="nothing-is-ever-over.html">It’s something never over</a>.<br />Suffering everywhere always and over it<br />the same serene murmur of the comfortable<br />distracted or worse looking over<br />the <a href="last-passenger.html">shoulder</a> and quietly looking away.</p>
+            <p><span class="line"><a href="moon-drowning.html">The radio is screaming the man</a></span><span class="line">on the radio will not be quiet he is</span><span class="line">pushed far into the background</span><span class="line">while some NPR talkers murmur over</span><span class="line">his screaming he lost something</span><span class="line">very important. He says it over</span><span class="line">and over but they do not listen</span><span class="line">they think of their children at home</span><span class="line">lying <a href="in-bed.html">in bed</a> dreaming sweet</span><span class="line">childhood one of them is staying over</span><span class="line">at a friend’s house they are staying</span><span class="line">up late they never want it to be over</span><span class="line">not like the man. His life on the radio</span><span class="line">will be the only one he ever has</span><span class="line">his life it is wasted he’s being spoken over</span><span class="line">such pain is in his voice. I wish you</span><span class="line">could hear it. <a href="nothing-is-ever-over.html">It’s something never over</a>.</span><span class="line">Suffering everywhere always and over it</span><span class="line">the same serene murmur of the comfortable</span><span class="line">distracted or worse looking over</span><span class="line">the <a href="last-passenger.html">shoulder</a> and quietly looking away.</span></p>
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