These bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow
and chirp, and chatter, flutter all the day,
they are a place I often love to go.

Tired life I clutch, the hours long and slow
by these a-flowing, tetric pours of shade,
said bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow.

By night ears catch the whispers and the groans,
a man, hanged child’s choked sibilance do say,
this is a place you’ll often love to go

deep where no traveler returns, the hole,
and to its haints on trees grotesque who sway
these bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow

and chill me skinned, flesh off denuded bone
and flay my scalp from forth atop my grey,
all this a place I often love to go.

Taken to death, cicadas, scarabs sweep me home,
smeared in dung, the sticky detritus of jays,
these bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow,
they are a place I often love to go.