felt: edited

poems/felt/109.md

@@ -1,7 +1,7 @@
 in the park i saw the last tree, and i laughed at it  
 as if it was a hobo and i a cruel child.
 
-when i check the shelves i find nothing but  
-incestuous ramblings, feral.
-
-i wish myself a cockroach, for i need an excuse to drink.
+i want to sit in the grass until the ferns  
+grow through me, until my skin withers on  
+the leaves and my eyes stare up into the  
+unsetting sun, lidless.

poems/felt/110.md

@@ -1,3 +0,0 @@
-my poetic angst is leading my hand  
-away from the paper. i want to throw stones at it,  
-but it is no bird.

poems/felt/111.md

@@ -1,8 +0,0 @@
-silver disquietude in a barrel of lead;  
-i am blisters and veins and boredom,  
-and the sun refuses to set.
-
-i want to sit in the grass until the ferns  
-grow through me, until my skin withers on  
-the leaves and my eyes stare up into the  
-unsetting sun, lidless.

style.css

@@ -39,7 +39,7 @@ p {
   cursor: pointer;
   font-family: 'Ingeborg-Regular';
 }
-@media all and (max-device-width: 1100px) {
+@media all and (max-device-width: 900px) {
   .poem {
     font-size: 40px;
     padding-left: 3em;