More love's in your eye
than I can remember,
than stars in the sky.
More love's in your eye
than blackberries, high
in lanes in September.
More love's in your eye
than I can remember.

For you
my dear
anew
for you
all through
the year;
for you
my dear.

I heard this tale about a queen
whose anger rose against a cliff
she coloured crimson, shade unclean.
I heard this tale about a queen...
I think I'd cleanse it back, with green
and live with you beside it, if
I heard this tale about a queen
whose anger rose against a cliff.

Where poets tell about a Fin,
her mind is where adventures are.
Adventurers may well begin,
where poets tell about a Fin,
to seek, to find, to stand within
the sunlight of her burning star;
where poets tell about a Fin.
Her mind is where adventures are.

For it's late in the night
and you're heading to bed.
And I'm sure that you're right
for it's late in the night
but I wish that I might
be with you instead,
for it's late in the night
and you're heading to bed.

They never told about the cold, cold morn,
the painful blue and cheery winter sky;
the friendly warm embrace of toothy yawn,
the reeking of its breath; its marble eye;
the dragon gets a mention in her tale
but just that Margaret entered its insides:
another hero trapped inside the scales,
but nothing of the dragon's life, besides.
They say the beast was Satan in a glamour,
but that's all nonsense, since the ****** matron
who made her crucifix a makeshift hammer
is ever since considered childbirth's patron;
because it gave her birth, and spared her bones,
she'd visit every week for tea and scones.

Your poetry holds picnics in the places
where some would say that words should never go;
there's strange delight in passing through those spaces
where nouns are tame and verbs are safe to know
to kingdoms where you colour past the lines,
where adjectives and adverbs long to tread—
the other side of “do not enter” signs
where rulers cannot reach the words you said.
    Yet nothing's for the sake of mere transgression:
    your words below, your metaphors above,
    with every part of speech in your possession
    together make a verbal kind of love;
conceiving thought anew, and giving birth
to cast and recreate the very earth.