Go then, unto thy turning and thy blame. Seek bliss then, brother, in my moment's shame. So sleep, dear brother, in my fame, my shame undone. That ellipsis, like every such omission in Crane, is telling. To do so is shameful, of course, yet it is the source of bliss, and the poem yokes the two in line six.
Fame is something more like spiritual triumph, the flourishing of the soul.
The poem may be read as a metaphysical quest, but it begins in the body, in experience shaped by the prohibitions and possibilities with which twentieth-century America structures the expression of desire. I think he means what he says. Its hard-won beauty is indebted, paradoxically, to the deforming forces of social reality, of ideology. The poem is a meditation on the closet, on the danger and allure of veils, and if read in terms of an asocial aestheticism it is inscrutable. Or take Bishop.