Brian Christian: Curls
Joy is the epiphenomenon of the year.
Our tonguetips form the once-frozen Bering Strait
over which a bacterial exodus passes. Joy in that.
The soloist runs out of steam and heads
for the head. Terrestrial water sloshes only
at the moon’s insistence. The brain may
circulate statistics—hail Bayes—but the mind is
riddled with particulars. I want to be
the rain that curls her hair, I say
to you whom I love still more.