Very Very

What was I? I was extremely something,
utterly one thing. I was writing about it
in a diary or a letter, the exact details
drawn down some distant, final plumbing,
and as I rumbled with joyful repetition,
so in love with the fullness of it,
I discovered how a simple word,
a word in wild multiples,
could lose itself and become mere symbol,
and then lose that.
What it was I was so very
turned to surprise--I remember that--
the ordinary made foreign: more, made wrong.
And I wasn’t so so anymore.
What happened? It was a mystery,
a diminishing. A failure of words.