His body was a bed of shale

deep a three quarter mile

at bottom trapped, combustible wealth.

We had no way softly to get it out;

it wouldn’t gurgle up like water

at the tap of a prophet’s staff.

We had to frack

to drive our engineered nails

as far as they would reach and force

down our slurry of want and expectation.

Out rises a grace that burns,

that heats houses, turns wheels—

we’ve struck a miracle of technique

a new kingdom of power

free from fear of soon running out.

What does it matter that as yet

we don’t really get

what happens at the depths?