Bliss as a Metaphor for the Catenary Curve

Michael T. Lawson

If the soul knows joy, it is the catenary in summer:
as stalks droop and stems sag, as the air hangs heavy
as custard, as even the sun seems to glisten under its own
assault, the catenary carves its same slim sweep—chain
bowed down and up, untroubled by even the breeze.
If the iron-wrought is holy, and it is, then praise
the day those links were forged. Praise arc,
praise length, praise heftiness of soul,
praise shape without trajectory.