Thief.

Thievery is a shape,
not one that pulls the eye
or draws the longing.
It was said into being.
Words, as instruments,
fashioned it into something hard.
It learned to refuse the chisel,
the stone that would smooth its edge.

Before it was formed, it was
something to be molded—
"not enough,"
"not enough,"
syllables repeated, stroke by stroke.
It kept the phrase and used it,
laid it into another mouth,
and a voice in the room went quiet.