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?