Poetry is the enemy of the poem.
End with an image and don't explain.
The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
Some poems present themselves as cliffs that need to be climbed. Others are so defensive that when you approach their enclosure you half expect to be met by a snarling dog at the gate. Still others want to smother you with their sticky charms.
A poet needs to keep his wilderness alive inside him.
Not that you need to be a saint to have visions worth talking about. The most effective prescription, I suspect, is to be a disciplined sinner. Perfection, as Valery noted, is work.