The East River comes across as exhausted and resentful, sick of the endless artificial lights that city and ships throw onto its surface. The lights seem almost frantic—“mad with creating”—but the river turns its back, refusing to shimmer for them. The speaker seems to share that bitter mood, urging the river to heave the reflections back into the dark like something toxic it needs to expel.
The mood is thick, brooding, and slightly violent. Words like “dour,” “sullen,” “vomit,” and “gut” make the river feel alive but hostile. Night isn’t soft or peaceful here; it’s a force that will destroy whatever brightness the river rejects. Instead of finding the lights beautiful, the poem treats them as an imposition—a fight between artificial glare and a stubborn, resistant darkness.