A speaker sits in a place that feels emptied out, a "dead town" surrounded by "infected places." The words "infected" and "dead" give a sense of sickness or decay, though the poem never says what has gone wrong. Judging by the imagery, the town could be literal or it could stand for a general mood of isolation.
In the middle of this, the speaker makes words. But they aren't made from nothing. They come from "other times and doors," from "other discourse and hubbub," from "other wonder." Each "other" points away from the present, toward livelier places and moments: memory, conversation, a world full of noise. Writing becomes a way of borrowing life from elsewhere.
The ending pulls the mood back down. The same "reproaching quiet" remains. Quiet here feels almost accusing, as if the silence judges the speaker. The result is a lonely, restless tone, where making something is a real effort but doesn't quite break the stillness.