The title suggests confinement, a place where someone is held, but the poem seems to treat that space as a kind of refuge. The speaker has come "off the street" with a purpose: "to set straight my mind." The street suggests noise and disorder, and the holding cell becomes a place to slow down and put thoughts in order. Whether it is a literal cell or a metaphor for a pause in life, the poem doesn't say, and that ambiguity is part of its pull.
The second stanza is more puzzling. "Hands design a hand" could mean that the speaker's own hands, perhaps clasped or folded, make a shape, or that human effort shapes something larger. Then comes the twist: "our every now an ever hour." Each moment stretches into an endless hour, which is how time feels when you're stuck waiting. The mood is quiet, tense, and oddly meditative, a mix of restlessness and calm.