Barbara Daniels The Bog Lemmings You take me out, brush my arm lightly; you can mime it but you don’t 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 don’t love me. Bog lemmings excavate twisting new passages and bite each other under the snow.