through the late-summer night,
white blossoms scattering, furiously.
They don’t make a noise,
at least none
that we can hear.
They disappear in all directions
and its difficulty.
There. The half-moon floats
thin and translucent
as an insect’s wing. We say the moon is
even as it wanes.
So much longing. . .
to witness the unfolding
across distance. How we must look
to anyone watching.
Here is the star cage.
Here the still life with black clock.
from 10 Moons and 13 Horses
This one was cited last month by Joshua Robbins. Not bad; the poem has some good lines in it, and sustains a definite mood. Now without the blah blah: the distracting commentary, pathetic fallacy, unnecessary conjunctions, etc.:
Better? Seems to me it is. I always appreciate it when others do the same for my verbal excesses...but it was the first version, apparently, that made it into print, or at least onto the Great Basin Poetry site.
P.S. there's an interesting discussion in the comments below. The upshot is, I think I may have gone too far with my exactor knife.