I said more or less the same thing a while ago in a poem that appeared in Space and Time, Summer/Fall 2008. I give you:
The Problem with Science Fiction Poetry
Science fiction poetry sings castrati songs,
whines wistfully for stars and princesses fair
but cowers from stalking unexplored plateaus,
tearing alien throats and eating unknown flesh,
losing its chance to fuck like mad and leave
crying children in the nooks of every timeline.
It shrinks from breaking open young worlds
and reading the molten innards; cringes
from forcing you inside the museum case,
crammed hard against the dying and exotic;
choosing instead to find ever cuter ways
to rewrap your worn-out childhood toys.