The poem moves downward, from a house into the cellar and then into something more unsettling still. It opens with "a new home / below the present one," as if another dwelling were waiting under the one we know. The next lines are harder to pin down, but they seem to describe a world shaped by what we love least: a nature "gone / to iron and money," natural life hardened into metal and profit.
Then the images turn eerie. In the damp cellar, "long things grew," and they become "little fingers" that need blood and refuse to eat. The last line, where they "cried to be a doll," is the strangest and saddest. The creatures want to be made harmless, small, and loved, though they seem like something monstrous.
The speaker never says how they feel, but the tone is cold and watchful. The mood is dreamlike and creepy, with a touch of pity. Judging by the title, the poem may suggest that horror grows from neglected, buried things.