by Thomas Mixon
Weathered Immaturity
I am stunted. I am stunned. I’m eternally
a toddler when it comes to love.
I want my milk. I scorn my cup. I upset
most the sky below my thrown-above
delinquencies of heart. I cloud
the weekend and the long-range forecasts’
formulas for fun. I cute myself
into good grace, falling asleep at once.
