Knowing

Nothing as familiar as grief abating the planks of your teeth.
Breathe in the whorl of heat.  Something is extra, the exhalations
feel extra. Knowing is heavy, like clothing soaked. I push my face
into the wrinkled slice of moon. Beams, thrust earthward,
the sharp sides of my ribs. A bird flapping circles at the ground,
the hollow tubes of bone touching, opening and closing
as if mouthing words into the wet, dank grit. What would
the pavement say to my vulnerable cheek were I as small,
and what could I say to it, knowing I am most myself here
in the slight helpless moment, with everything condensed.