It would seem to demand the sonnet’s shade,
This creature of stone ground down to desert,
Whose granular arrogance wind mislaid
On scalloped rows of sand, just where Shelley
Left us staring: we boys who had to please
A bald teacher by memorizing art
As old as (if not older than) the sea
That roared in “Dover Beach” or fossil trees
Frost always blathered on about— birches?
On the green board some sniggering wit chalked
A noose above the line “One could do worse
Than be a swinger,” while King of Kings talked
Softly about the dance, the universe
Constricted to the coming night’s searches:
Fevered, hurried and altogether terse.