The poem starts with a problem: reading a translation means imagining the original writer's thrill, and the speaker admits no translation can ever be the best one. Then the mood snaps. Fed up with "repetitious pretensions of mind," the speaker begins shouting orders at himself and us: go outside, open your jaws, eat Mother Nature, drink in cold air, switch off the radio. The tone is bossy, funny, and a little desperate, like someone talking himself out of his own head.
As the poem moves, the commands soften into something more physical. Eyes see nameless birds, fingers play in grass, and mouths, hearts, lips and tongues blur together. Reading becomes a bodily experience rather than a mental one. The ending turns quieter and more vulnerable. The speaker feels ticklish, teary, and limping yet "not limp," bleeding inside. The mood is restless and exhilarated, but with a real ache underneath that the loud energy can't quite hide.