Cicadas are more often heard than seen.

I pause my search for you during a thunderstorm.

I hoped you’d grow into a southern red oak speaking of your roots and the struggle for sun.

Cars now run almost exclusively on battery power, and are easily ignored.

I miss the corner where two maples tangle together.

The city cleaves and the forest can’t.

My usual walk by the creek has flooded, recedes languidly.

When will this wobbly ground dry out?

Is that a cardinal?

The mud of you on my soles.

June 6, 2023

Andrew Garvin

Andrew Garvin (He/Him/His) is a gay poet. His work has been featured with the Guggenheim Museum in New York, The Pacific Review, Silk Road Review, and more. He received his MFA in poetry from Virginia Commonwealth University, Master’s of Social Work from Columbia University in New York, and BA from the University of Southern California. He lives in San Francisco.

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