Someone stole
The sugar from the bowl –
On the little backs of ants,
Or the shiny beaks of crows.

I will shake my futile fist
Or I will rip my yellow hair;
It won’t matter, it won’t come,
Once it is no longer there.

Someone shuffled in the night
Like a clumsy incubus.
Overturning this and that,
Chasing cats under the bed.

I will find a yellow tooth
Stranded in a smiling wound;
It’s too sweet and it’s too trite,
It was pleading for a bite.

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