Thief

A wren stole my voice, so I had to write things down --
Impossibly demanding, considering my hands
Only exist in dreams. I fell asleep each time
I had an idea, taciturn, stillborn out of sleep,

And my dream fingers would begin to move like sticks,
Carefully, patiently, they grasp the sheet of paper,
That like a sprung trap shook with fright. O’ Pangur Bán,
I could use your sharp claws. It’s a nightmare to talk asleep.

Awake, chary, I read what I penned:
“I’m going to get that goddamn wren.”