Anselm Hollo's poem starts with a burst of excitement: the speaker has been invited into a woman's big bed and is thrilled by everything that might happen. He compares the feeling to wandering through the Gobi Desert under an orange moon, then arriving in an ancient city where he can't understand a word. It's wonder mixed with confusion.
The second part brings him down to earth, and it's funny and awkward. He's sick over her feet, she's cold, and he admits he feels too old to do better, but insists that this is actually pretty good. There's a rueful honesty here, a shrug at his own limits.
The last section widens out to the galaxies drifting apart, which the speaker imagines as a sound, like the patter of dog feet on a sidewalk. The closing line, that wherever they're going, they're going home, is gentle and consoling. The mood moves from giddy to embarrassed to quietly tender, finding comfort in small, imperfect things.