Most of what I read would be called "speculative poetry," which generally means that it involves concepts and ideas from literary fields such as science fiction, fantasy, and horror. However, my personal favorite poet is Dylan Thomas, who I've mentioned on this blog many times before. While not specifically "speculative," Thomas's poetry has a certain surreal element to it that I find very lovely and thought provoking.
If you'd like to know what I recommend in the field of poetry, here is a link to my poetry shelf on Goodreads. You can see what I've read and how I rated it.
Although I don't consider myself much of a poet, I do try my hand at the form on occasion. Here's one of mine, the only one I've ever written about my writing "muse." It was originally published in The Pedestal Magazine.
As autumn shadows
evolve into winter nights,
hunger comes sniffing.
Gaunt, the gray wolf has grown.With yellow eyes.
Her belly snarls a wild music of want,
to match the growl in her throat.
In the spring she fed wellfrom the hunt.
Her teeth left the green grass
dappled with red.
But summer came warmand did not warm her.
Heat drove the hunted to ground.
Sickness claimed her pack.
On a hushed and lorn eve,in a desperate famine,
through cold black woods
she came weak to my fire.
I threw her the carcassof my feast,
and she became my muse.
In no way domesticated.
With strength returned, she hunted.Spurning the tame food I offered,
she left me the feathers
of some gutted prey.
Now on occasion she visits.At edge of fire and shadow,
only her eyes glow.
We judge each other warily.
We will be friends,a pack of two.
Or one will kill the other.