The Soul Like Pigeon

I'm blue, the way the sky's blue.
No, not in color. Not that blue,

not like that: I'm blue, the way
my soul's blue. It breaks.

Love paints me, my soul, into a
blue to which you enter, the way

the pigeons enter, rabbit-like,
the boughs. If the boughs are a kind

of resting, or a safety to which
it will return to, mustn't it also be

my body? What my soul is, it is
inside my body. That much is certain.

The shorter version goes
like this: the body the bough,

the soul the pigeon that
can't stop returning.