A Realist Crunches Numbers

The dogwoods blossomed hard this year.
A woman with a sense of humor comes faster.
Only the dust doesn't settle 'round here.
He speaks in tongues like a Pentecostal.

Bookended cheap shots she couldn't resist;
This is how never tastes.
This is your fear.
We tore down our painting, aborted our kids.
Our hearts are bastards searching for fathers.

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