They said there was a most beautiful
Chance happening just a stone’s throw
Over her shoulders—
Until all of the baseball games let out,
And they hid the uneaten cotton candy
Underneath of her shoulder blades:
I could not say if she was even one of my
Muses—I was too drunk
And not published,
But I looked into her eyes furtively—
The metamorphosis which happens in our
Peripheral vision, though you knew me
As some sort of a teacher,
And almost an adult—
As the pageantries were flying over the moon—
And the unicorns knew that they would always
Be in love.
The Metamorphosis Which Happens In Our Peripheral Vision
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