Untitled 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.