Very

Once I was very. My dog was very. Our house very
(though my mother never agreed). Sunsets, some episodes
of "Gentle Ben," the moon when it wanted to be. All very.

Happiness was very, and sadness, too. I wanted it all
to be very. A smell, a dance, a breast. It wasn't good
to settle for not very. Very very underlined was best.

Very needn't even exist. Hoarded by some, useless
as pennies, cut grass, dusk, that glass of mare's milk
I never again will drink, not forever or for all eternity—

very's profligate cousins—but until my soul's last click.
Very: green vegetable found in a far country, without
a name, without instructions for how to devour it.

Copyright © 2004 Kurt S. Olsson All rights reserved
from Quarterly West
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission