Lines of Small Signs

It would make sense a not-world,
An anti-world, lacked detail,
In contrast to life’s world filled

To all brims and horizons
With divisible details.
As soon as that thought crops up,

However, a first flower,
Or something like a flower,
A bulbous, spiral chalice

On a thin stem of darkness
Or, at least, more shadowed light,
Appears in the atmosphere,

Which doesn’t seem to be air
So much as a gas-like glow
Inside of incandescence.

Nowhere else is there a clear
Edge or line to anything,
But here are incised petals

Or sheaves of sharp-edged, tapered,
Leafish pages, a twirling
Bolus of lines of small signs.