The title sets up a paradox: skepticism as a job, something you do for a living. The first line then surprises us by calling doubt a pleasure rather than a burden. The speaker seems to enjoy not knowing, or at least not accepting things too quickly.
The next lines turn stranger and more vivid. Claiming to be happier than any prince, the speaker says they "bled out of my own temple." The image is violent, but it reads as a kind of self-emptying or self-opening. Perhaps doubt means cutting into your own mind, or leaving a sacred place you were raised in. The poem doesn't say, and that ambiguity matters.
The last line, "an ox making my home by the sea," is a calm, odd picture. An ox is slow, sturdy and bound to work, and the sea is wide and unsettled. Together they suggest someone patient and grounded who is content to live beside uncertainty. The mood is quiet, wry and oddly peaceful.