From 643d9ceb308c206a6e572c7c555168ff0ca60bc1 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Case Duckworth Date: Fri, 27 Mar 2015 15:40:42 -0700 Subject: Fix #5: Verse typesetting Thanks to the pandoc-discussion thread at , line breaks in verse have been converted to 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. --- last-passenger.html | 6 +++--- 1 file changed, 3 insertions(+), 3 deletions(-) (limited to 'last-passenger.html') diff --git a/last-passenger.html b/last-passenger.html index 91de252..9a6508a 100644 --- a/last-passenger.html +++ b/last-passenger.html @@ -36,9 +36,9 @@
-

Memory works strangely, spooling its thread
over the nails of events barely related,
creating finally some picture, if we’re
lucky, of a life—but more likely, it knots
itself, catches on a nail or in our throats
that gasp, as it binds our necks, for air.

-

An example: today marks one hundred years
since your namesake, the last living passenger
pigeon, died in Cincinnati. It also marks
a year since we last spoke. Although around
the world, zoos mourn her loss, I’m done
with you. I mourn no more your voice, the first
sound I heard outside my body that reached
into my throat and set me ringing. But that string—

-

memory that feels sometimes more like a tide
has yoked together, bound your voice to that bird,
the frozen, stuffed, forgotten pigeon—my heart
is too easy, but it must do—to blink, to flex
its unused toes, slowly thaw to the wetness
of beating wings, fly to me again, and alight,
singing full-throated, on my broken shoulder.

+

Memory works strangely, spooling its threadover the nails of events barely related,creating finally some picture, if we’relucky, of a life—but more likely, it knotsitself, catches on a nail or in our throatsthat gasp, as it binds our necks, for air.

+

An example: today marks one hundred yearssince your namesake, the last living passengerpigeon, died in Cincinnati. It also marksa year since we last spoke. Although aroundthe world, zoos mourn her loss, I’m donewith you. I mourn no more your voice, the firstsound I heard outside my body that reachedinto my throat and set me ringing. But that string—

+

memory that feels sometimes more like a tidehas yoked together, bound your voice to that bird,the frozen, stuffed, forgotten pigeon—my heartis too easy, but it must do—to blink, to flexits unused toes, slowly thaw to the wetnessof beating wings, fly to me again, and alight,singing full-throated, on my broken shoulder.