For me every poem is a found object, rather like a pebble on the beach. However great the pedigree of the rock from which a pebble is whittled, it stands, like the poem, alone. Alone from the inspiration that birthed it. Alone from the perspirer that scripted it.
Because of this, however faithfully I feel that a finished poem replicates the passion of the ideas that birthed it, I have learnt to simmer it. To file it away for a day, a week, a month even, and return to it with some surprise. To see how it reads latterly, when the passion is cool, even cold. When there is no residual heat in the mind that formed it to give it false warmth; or residual, prebooted knowledge in the mind that reads it, to lend it wisdom beyond what is contained in its lines.
I try to return to a poem with something approximating the blank canvas that the reader will approach it with. It can never be that blank of course, but I can only try.