Words are
I don't write poems often, but occasionally some idea forces itself to the surface, gathers some bits of English phrasing around itself, and demands to be taken seriously. This one started in a cafe, chatting with my wife over breakfast, and became scribbles in a notebook. WORDS AREplastic bags we useto carry our experiences homefrom the Supermarket of Liferubber bullets firedto disperse the mobs of truthin...