That we cannot bank on the taste of mornings—
ear in mouth, coffee rich.
That banking is for keeping

machine-needy fingers, not for this
waxing waning
moving in and out of bodies.

That we receive
each other as bulrushes
on the river’s bank receive

the wind, sway,
grow hard and sturdy.
That there are no Good Mornings

and payment plans.
That we compound
each other, seeds laughing

and tearing away from us.
That we silently rise, rise
until we are two

separate stars in the morning.