Misanthropy is a word I may have learnt under duress,
in the aftermath of devotion.

I perceived god in a pair of oncoming headlights,

in the frigid air,
and the booming sky.

Time was first disfigured
by a familiar thalassic rhythm—

there was no clamour
when my father’s body reached its encore
to the music of death rattle,
his spine
curved like a question mark.

I went to the beach alone,
below the tideline

my stride aligned perfectly
with someone else’s footprints,

but they had been accompanied
by their dog.