At first the speaker can’t tell whether the world has actually grown darker or whether they are simply paying more attention to shadows. Their own shadow feels like extra luggage—belt, bag, backpack—something they politely gather up whenever they leave a room. That image gives the poem an unsettled, slightly weary feeling: even their own outline is a burden.
Mirrors then multiply a single figure into a ghost army, all glaring with the same fanatical expression, and ghosts begin appearing everywhere: newspaper, curtains, television. They resist measurement, so the speaker clings to a “ruler, sanity.” Turning on a light doesn’t help; it only swaps ghosts for shadows, and ghosts hide in those shadows. The poem creates a quietly claustrophobic mood, as if being watched by presences that are both ordinary and impossible to shake.