we think of , write of fish heads,
cut off.

placed in a dish we wonder.

the cat walks off, not understanding
the urge for recycling of some sort.

we know fish bone is good as fertilizer, yet cannot bear
to grind them. they float, stare at me ******.

smelly, not fit for the bin, nor paper, nor glass,
eyes blurred deathly.

as suggested, throw to the night creatures.

she said that some thing will eat them.

sbm.