The title suggests someone who has been reformed, yet the poem keeps undercutting any tidy sense of improvement. The first two lines list wild, almost fairy-tale acts: kissing, cursing, licking a toad, killing everything in sleep. They read like a past self, or a dream self, full of appetite and violence, now confessed or left behind.
Then the tone turns small and strange. The speaker is "missing my cards" and has forgotten where they belong. That could mean lost identification, or lost belonging more broadly. Reform seems to have cost them a place in the world.
The final lines are the surprise: "my shirts grow well / on nothing but wind." It's an odd, half-comic image of laundry flapping on a line, but it also feels like a life with nothing to hold onto, yet still somehow thriving. The mood is dreamlike, wry, and a little lonely, with a quiet acceptance of drifting.