From 9a2e2a9c3e0396f956381b8ee4af80fe3e8cf652 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001
From: Case Duckworth
Date: Mon, 2 Mar 2015 18:31:47 -0700
Subject: Add thing class to pieces in template; recompile

---
 last-passenger.html | 2 +-
 1 file changed, 1 insertion(+), 1 deletion(-)

(limited to 'last-passenger.html')

diff --git a/last-passenger.html b/last-passenger.html
index 5784faf..9e78663 100644
--- a/last-passenger.html
+++ b/last-passenger.html
@@ -24,7 +24,7 @@
         
                     </header>
 
-    <section class="verse">
+    <section class="thing verse">
     <p>Memory works strangely, <a href="roughgloves.html">spooling its thread</a><br />over the <a href="when-im-sorry.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>
-- 
cgit 1.4.1-21-gabe81