Two mules marking one spiral of a mill's
Archimedean scroll pump have frozen themselves,
Their mule-selves, in a pump-eddy this winter.
At one time these mules moved magnetically
Through wholly other fields in the burning mill,
Through spicule pools, through flaring filaments
At the surface of the mill's incandescent currents.
Now at the quicker turnstyle of death and of birth
Our mules are former tree-dwellers on a plain of ice
In another time, in our time, we lift our mule snouts
And we wonder at the mill reflected in the moon.
Surely we thought the spiral would freeze here with us,
Slowly in from the sides with us, we mules have frozen,
the scroll pump has not - the mill has not gone dark.
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