Read quickly, "Pinched" describes a bad night's sleep, but the poem keeps slipping into something larger. The speaker sleeps "backward," as if even rest has gone wrong, and feels confined in a "thin framed self." The small, odd detail of a bleeding hand suggests a body that is hurt or on edge, though the poem never says how it happened.
Meanwhile the book and table seem to grow through the night, "exceeding" the speaker. Ordinary objects feel bigger and more solid than the person who owns them. The bed, "laden / as a full mouth," is crowded and heavy, almost like something that could speak or swallow.
Then the poem turns outward with a question: what would we give "for good news / for the poor"? After all that cramped, private discomfort, the speaker's mind widens to other people's need. The mood is uneasy and tired, but also quietly longing. The poem seems to link a sleepless, small-feeling self with a hope for something better beyond it.