Pressing lost thumbs into static television like gray
butterfly clippings salvaged into a leaf-pile, a burial

mound on a great aunt’s bedside table next to her
expired photograph where the wrong pea coat is buttoned.

Communion wafers taste 3 times better when paired
with white wine and the imprint of a dove eating black

moths—illuminates the cattle need for washing hands
before lips see anything malleable.

If x times y equals xy and x minus y equals x solo,
why not x fucking itself indefinitely?

The clock tower is stuck in humidity—no bells, no
gongs to sing holy, blessed are the peacemakers,

for they shall be called sons of god, blessed are the
protestors, for they shall be called expatriates,

sharing a roof with refugees. The chair is of equal
comfort to the expired hammock, houses fewer wings.

It smashes itself repeatedly against the window, never
shuttered, scrapes the floor on Sundays only.

REMI RECCHIA is an MFA candidate in Poetry at Bowling Green State University, where he serves as Assistant Poetry Editor for the Mid-American Review and teaches Creative Writing. His work has appeared in or will soon appear in Old Northwest ReviewBlue River Review, Front PorchGravelGlass: A Journal of Poetry, and Ground Fresh Thursday Press, among others.