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This is obsession:
To dig deeper, expose the flesh.
 
I 
Want 
To 
Break you open
Like a tropical fruit
Separate the pulp from rind
And lay the seeds on the table
One 
By 
One.

In neat rows,
Smooth and polished like diviners stones:
Past Present and, 
-no, we mustn't be presumptuous...I think,-
Future

There is no future.

What ties us together,
but sticky hands 
And pieces of flesh
Caught in our teeth 
And under our nails
Like Guava pulp?

We are choking on the seeds.