By: Corrine Mina
Robotic bunnies pink with drumheads can’t
compete with the metronome in my rib
cage, pulsing haphazard Baroque monk chants
without meter, speeding up at its lib-
arty. Thirteen hours it will remain
focused, flailing on schedule and forcing
two barely shut eyes see details again.
The bead bandits will need no coercing,
for paradox, in science, creates an
inverse proportion; my tonsils tickle
while smooth criminals slowly awaken
hidden personas that Hide and Jeckyl.
Rimshots in my ears now, that damn bunny
makes for sure I write my epiphany.