Necropsy Moon کے بول

Dry and cold autumn At the necropsy table you stares I like the thickness Of the strands of your hair Two goats in the storm Carrying me in his arms Bringing me to the river I keep looking at the stars They covered my face I felt my belly burn Goats eating my bowels? Or is it just concern? Heart meter or crickets? Instruments or teeth? Ritual or surgery? What am I doing here? They took me by at the Necropsy room stairs I like the way you look at me Now that you are dead