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Listen: because I know you
never do, not with this voice or
a swish in my wrist, but
look: at what I’ve done. It’s all
stars; it’s all my blood on the page,
but isn’t that cliché? To imply that I,
this flip-flop on your foot, each
slap against your heel a reminder
that I can’t have success, yet pull
back the layers of each spinning galaxy
and you will hear my effort, you
will see that among the stardust are
Werther’s-shaped cells like the ones
that live in you, and may I remind you
how you can’t catch up if you tried, but
look: I’ll reason with you. Flop with
grace. With beauty. With precision,
each crystal on my crown is one
not in yours so, let me pluck
my success from your palm.