IDENTITY DOCTOR

You’ve got nothing in your palm
but a hybrid abolishment witchcraft,
a flower bloom in reverse;
the seaming of lips, the erasure
of fingertips, magnolia blossoms
made blind to the sky.

This Spring time hypodermic,
a symphony you’d best euthanize
a lull to cash in on, again and again.
Rub a finger, start a fire.
God bless the combustion
at the heart of every engine.