i.
From the V,
each pelican searches for its reflection
in the banal
squiggle, traffic at 5PM— and so many mirrors, prospects—
Mother, you did test,
for your one and only son, silver fishies in the curl
of wave.
Each leaf of the fruit tree twiddles,
independent (insert line from another
poem about sunlight and a tree, search
for Milton, he might
have a closer connection to God). Drive-thru
window you open
offering fries with that. Thanks for the ketchup,
you’re beautiful: contrasting with colors
from the soda machine.