The speaker of this short poem is afraid, and the fear keeps shifting shape. First it's an object, something hard and unmoving that seems to sit in judgment, like a "council" with the power to rule on us. Then comes a flag for a country the speaker will never find, which suggests a longing for belonging that can't be met.
The third stanza is the most piercing. Grief is so large that a widow is hurt just by hearing a tune, so even small, ordinary things carry pain. The poem seems to say that loss makes the world unsafe to touch.
In the last lines, the speaker is told to pray to "the fuse in my head." That image turns the mind into something dangerous and close to going off, and it makes prayer feel misdirected. The title, "Subjective," fits: everything here is filtered through one anxious mind. The mood is tense, lonely, and quietly desperate.