Some are a campfire where you can warm your hands. I love to get down on my knees and work with words, dig them out of their stony recesses and plant them next to each other to create something new. Some of them are heavy as boulders and won't budge. Some must be smitten together and broken. Some of them spark.
Language is good looking.
It looks like a long field of grass, enclosed in barbed-wire, a single horse grazing. It looks like a lime-colored snake disappearing into a hole. You can see it hanging like a pair of tennis shoes from a telephone wire. There's a wool scarf in the gutter. I look inside myself and the words are dark, dark red.