The first tanks were propelled
By airplane engines.
There were no intermediate steps,
Just in gear and not.
These poems work similarly,
If you feed them solid rock,
They will pull the behemoth
Over thick treads.
But when you leave them be,
They turn over and over still,
Churning punctuation.
They begin to re-digest scrap words,
Anything else they can come into contact with.
All the pieces collide into a
Misshapen conglomerate, loosely cobbled.
Sometimes it is like hedge magic.
Others, it just dulls the blade.
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