There is no Cinderella poem, Marcus. A perfect amalgam of word and emotion and courage and truth that will be rescued by an erudite prince from the undiscovered dark, transported in a pumpkin carriage from obscurity to enduring fame in an instant. The unread poem just dies, returning to the emptiness one disconsolate word at a time.
Probably depends less on poet or prince and more on a fickle glass slipper.
Magic, Marcus, magic! Even the best of poems needs that bit of sparkling fairy dust, a conspiracy of stars and moon to shine, that cloak of invisibility so it can slip into hearts and minds and be declaimed by birds and flowers in unimagined spaces. A poet has to be part cloud, part rabbit and part magician.
And what happens when the clock strikes twelve?
my secrets have secrets
my dreams have dreams
I know, my poems write poems for them