Barbara Daniels

The Bog Lemmings


You take me out, brush
my arm lightly; you can
mime it but you donít

mean it, your knee just
touching mine. You tell me
about the hairy-snouted

bog lemming. It builds
little runways that it litters
with green excrement.

You twist a paper napkin
into a rose, leaving
a pile of torn tissues,

coffee hot on the table,
soft petal of steam. You donít
love me. Bog lemmings

excavate twisting new
passages and bite
each other under the snow.




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