Another Thought, Or, What I Do Instead of Paying Attention in Class

I find solicitude in lonely places:
Cathedrals, graveyards, night time fog that traces
Edgewise spreading through the streets
Layering our old retreats with one-night
Dripping oyster-stands, yellow clatt'ring
Grace which never seeks my face
Nor seek I it; yet somehow morning's
Golden rays break the gloom of afternoon
Rising from the grave, our resurrection soon--
Too soon, maybe: running, crying, terrifying
The sea, the land, the Man o' the Moon.
And maybe with the roaring surf,
The caged lions torn from earth,
Maybe with the lion's roar, and the sand
Of lost sea tides, maybe from the roaring skies,
All our running, all our lies
Will create a stunning specious
Tapestry, flowing trickling quality
Of lions, monsters, pounding surf
And finally the great red turf
Springs fertile with shiv'ring towers
Made of crystal flaring panes
Of bloodlines pumping crystal
Through our stagnant veins.
Retreating steps on sunny streets
No longer our muttering retreats;
So forward, courage, raise your head
In your death be raised from dead
Retreat merely into war
Dive into the surf, the lion's mouth,
Usurp him, take him o'er, become the roar.
And My solicitude will stay as
The sun breaks bright on a bleeding aged day.