The poem moves through a series of strange, half-connected images, and the logic feels more like a dream than an argument. It begins with expectation, pictured as raw ore handed to everyone: something unrefined that we are all given and have to work with. From there the images shift quickly. A safe makes us believe in money, yet money is called "false as all fur," as if value were a kind of costume or surface we mistake for something real. The "secret king" who walks around difficult crags suggests a hidden power or self that avoids obstacles rather than facing them.
The ending turns personal and plain. The speaker reads to fall asleep, hoping to "get out of my head." After all the puzzling, abstract lines, that admission feels honest and a little weary. The mood is restless, wry, and slightly detached, as though thinking has become something the speaker needs relief from.