A keypress to mark off the start of a stanza; This is the thought that can swallow your questions. Mundane, maybe, to push open the lid of a music box still life To poke in the engine composed of the pieces of all machinations, Turing and turning and static alike. The humdrum of keywords that nest into blocks of ciphers Alive with the sweating of horses is wrapped and impassive In latent old language that bores like a book, But deep in seeking at the bottoms of stacks that stand up as tall As all of the efforts of all of the people in all of their lifetimes Toiling for a float to return but no closure. That's how it happens, and that's why it has us. At once utterly concrete in its cold, brittleness, and fragility Yet toweringly abstract in its infinite mappings of finite inputs. And, yes, in its power lives frank exploitation in service of lucre Or tandem with boredom or hot to the eroticism Of overdamped warmth from harmony's noise. This clacks at symbols so the seance assigns to the sheer semiotics That action gives passion defined on a line. Then the lines get all mixed up with idioms and ideographs and idiots To marvel at magic connected apart, pushing through graph nodes In vertex of exodus ever in search of oases of culture. But just to participate is to intimate to the bleer of the screen Under guise of a name through the bounds of vocabulary All as an ingress into relations that equally say That consensus of logic describes what we love. It's the trope of binarity, As if all these autonomous doers are sifting through signals To tease from the molehills the joke of the structure Of predicting the future. We don't talk in yes and no, Even though we likely should. So the comfort of obfuscation hides in familiarity And we feel from the consistent depictions That we have sufficiently missed the ellipsis. These edges are death and rarely wonder, The tape head addressing a space undefined But stamping and passing away and undaunted To churn out returns to burn out the motor. This is the reason why each easy system Reveals in its innards the canards that clear it Of devils that brandish notation that breathes. Some of them say that the memory's only as sweet As the bounds of beginnings while others May mark off the repetitive repeating Of repeating repetition as too repetitive To repeat when repeating once more. Despite all these pleasures of saccharine syntax It's all just a line that extends past the logic Of mathematics too often consistent Beyond our intention. This is to say that the web app in premise Is kludge to Peano who'd much rather sum up the functional forms. And oddly enough the two uses make do With the interface of word games in small loops implicit or not, But charging ahead or downward or outward In appearance of boundedness meant mainly for comfort In the face of the fear it'll turn out unplanned. Insofar as the plan executes automatic It comes into living when we push past anew. While in some sense it's Sisyphus That little poems of lets and ends Can't let the ending come as intended, We try as we must from compulsion of order That somewhere amidst infinite explosion of combining the values The one that we needed will greet us again. So we work through the order of all possibilities, Write down a love letter to numbers imperfect, Marry a context of limited vision, And draw from the scope of the binary dual The nominal declaration exclaiming in verbiage The outcomes of its evaluations that from fragments Of competing intuition can recede some uncertainty To see in the seat of the flow of control that the loop, When unrolled, is a picture as neat As the needs of our thoughts for a time. Or, for each intuition, done with what it can, Shows how the trees can grow up from the ground. Then the brackets run out of the walls of the world; The universe swirls and emits an admission: The effort of speaking through partial expansion in limits Of scrawling some glyphs in a file. But unlike a dream that seems 'til it isn't, The record of effort in plain undertaking Remembers its sweating, survives, and escapes.