The title, "Replete," means full, and the poem plays with that word in strange, unsettling ways. It opens with a wry, almost comic line: "full of myself / is how we all are." Everyone is stuffed with their own self, their own concerns. But the next images undercut that fullness. A boy who "died / being dried in an oven" lies "entire in a box," whole yet gone. A king has run out of ink and is tired of everything, so even power ends up empty and worn down.
The mood is quiet, dark and a little dreamlike. The speaker sounds calm rather than panicked, as if stating odd facts. The last lines, "rain put me / into my good night," suggest a gentle surrender, perhaps sleep, perhaps death. Judging by the imagery, the poem seems to say that being full of ourselves is only a brief state, and that it ends in rest, silence, or loss.