So Many Poets

It was a different climb
helmetless
mechanical
unlit by bulbs
when Dickinson, cummings, 
Brodsky
reached quiet peaks
to peer across 
unscrolled valleys
whose today eyes and fingers
crawl like ants on shattered
maple syrup crates --
high, calorically, on the sugar brush
sweeping electric pages
with legs and legs
antennae feel
much has not changed
though now poetry may be practiced
by a fuller human range.