The speaker opens with a blunt, almost comic confession: he left his wife for a dictionary. What follows suggests he has fallen into it completely. The dictionary "spoke as 1000 strangers," so language stops feeling like a tool and becomes a crowd of unfamiliar voices, all talking at once.
The lines then drift the way a reader's eye does when it slides down a page of entries. "Hand and hatch" lead to "harpsicon," then to "a bargain, a batten, a bed," where words seem to chain together by sound and spelling rather than by sense. The line break in "I please my / self" is a nice trick: the speaker pleasures himself, and also splits his own self in two, as if he's getting lost in the words.
The mood is playful but a little lonely. There's real delight in the sounds, yet the poem trails off mid-list, hinting that the obsession has no natural stopping point, and that something human was traded away for it.