The title gives the clue: "Anthropocene" names the age in which humans have become a force shaping the planet. Against that grand word, the poem is tiny and blunt. It pictures us as monkeys, playful and a little silly, dancing with "little globes of glass." Those globes could be screens, lightbulbs, snow globes, or crystal balls. The poem doesn't say, and that openness lets them stand for any shiny thing we cradle and admire. They are also small replicas of the world, which hints that we treat the Earth as a toy.
The key line is "get and forget, our getting / a fatal fever." We grab, we move on, and the grabbing itself becomes a sickness that could kill us. The speaker sounds wry and detached, almost like a zoologist watching a species. Underneath, there's alarm. The mood is lightly mocking on the surface and grim beneath, because the dance looks like fun until the word "fatal" arrives.