Impossibly Mindless

I tripped on a poem today. Candlelight, by Tony Hoagland. It begins ...

Crossing the porch in the hazy dusk
to worship the moon rising
like ...,

All my senses were quick at once. What will he say? Shhh! Wait! He's going to describe the moments I enjoy nearly each evening, when I ponder the heavens and their gods and their stories. I'm about to visit that expanse wherein I stand so small, so frail and yet so safe.

What will he say?

The poet continued ...

like a yellow filling-station sign
on the black horizon, ....

I nearly threw up. It took but a moment to bring forth a demonstrative retort —

I think an earnest writer should avoid reducing verse with simile that can destroy an earnest reader's imaginative discovery, like beginning a joke with its punchline, or hiding a child's Birthday gift in plain sight.