It Is So Gorgeous by the Chicken House

Every day is a poem of its own
Wandering around its limited range
Of minor discoveries, loose change,
And the cornmeal some godhead has thrown

As a sign hungry signifiers
Must reconcile themselves to the theft
Of best-laid plans. Wring its scrawny neck
And what you have left the town cryer

Will still try to mount and crow over
As if the coming on of midnight
Meant seamless segue to the pale light,
Wan, drawn, chill, of the next poem over.