of the caught fish
so soft, so wet and cool
in hand.
still alive,
twitching, coughing
in the air
that chokes it.
full of feathered bones,
how slowly it dies.
eyes, flat
and black, staring towards
the sun.
the guilt runs up my arms.
one holding
this life,
the other a knife.
there is no choice but
to throw it back.
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