One day—from earth, it was observed
that the indisputably wrong thing had happened.
A gleaming incandescent star,
the mysterious diamond they'd all wished
The showers of shrapnel were savage,
and toxic, and horrible;
and the subsequent darkness was total.
But then—the day after,
by the weird chilly light emitted
from some kind
of hack, forgotten back-up generator,
each survivor rose to wrote a poem.
And though no one felt an iota better,
everyone felt this
at last, simultaneously. And that, it turned out,
was the whole miracle—
the only and most certain epistolary angel,
the obscure, unsolicited message,
born in the blazing hearts of billions,
the spark of conscious imagination—finally
perched and glowing with intention,
at home at last atop the withered wick of the soul.