Words / Wings

Your wings are the winter and the turn of ice, the slowness of the sun,
Naturally general sagging, as if She would stop. What reverberations
Mark the colors of her depths and her sinuous folds of modality,
Tendering her brother to the fruitless fields? A bitter seed,
Which is your own wings' growth. How could the wings sprout?
From the bone, where sinews appear and stretch like seedlings
Towards the sun, their luminous source:
All wings extend towards the sun.
But what is the sun? An eye, bleary at the edges, wincing
Redness on the sprouting crops. Oh eye,
Universal source of pain, which is my pain,
The pain of the poet when he stops
Inventing and chops up the page
With words: what are these words?
And how will we recover them as wings?