Three short stanzas, and a feeling of hollowing out. The speaker looks at the body and sees it as a church that has emptied: no congregation, no presence, just space. The opening line is half a question and half a sigh, as if the speaker is startled by how bare things have become.
The second stanza moves away from something warm and vivid. "The red road of a ready tongue" suggests speech that flows easily, perhaps even glibly, and the title hints at this: a charlatan is someone who talks a good game. The speaker seems to drift further from that kind of easy, performing talk, and from whatever it once connected them to.
The last lines are the bleakest. Parts of the body that are "presently dead" become strange, as though one's own limbs or senses turn into foreign objects. The mood is quiet, uneasy and a little eerie. There's loss here, but also a cold, watchful distance, as if the speaker is observing their own numbness rather than crying out about it.