The title needs unpacking first, because "Intronaut" is a coinage. It echoes words like astronaut and aquanaut, which name people who travel through space or under water, but it swaps the outward prefix for an inward one, as in introspection. The traveller here explores the self, and the six short lines that follow read like a mission statement for a voyage that never leaves the head.
The first couplet sets a paradox: "my place is not a place." Home, or the speaker's true location, can't be pinned to a map. Then comes "I have directions," and the line break does something clever. Read on its own, the line suggests the speaker has instructions or a sense of bearing. Read straight on from the line above, it becomes "my place is not a place I have directions [to]," a destination with no route. The poem never settles which reading is right, and that fits a speaker who is both lost and oriented. The first line also has a steady, almost chant-like rhythm of three beats ("my PLACE is NOT a PLACE"), and the repeated word "place" turns the idea over until it stops meaning what it should.
The second couplet moves from navigation to construction: "to make a blue room / in my mind." The verb "make" matters. The speaker isn't discovering this space but building it, and the word brings to mind the old idea of the poet as a maker. A room is a small, enclosed, human-sized space, quite different from the vastness an "-naut" usually enters, and blue colours it in a few ways. It is the colour of sky and of calm, and also of sadness, though the poem doesn't say which it intends. "Blue room" has two long, rounded vowels that slow the line down and make it quiet. Then "in my mind" shrinks to three syllables, the shortest line in the poem, so the reader feels walled in for a moment, as if the line were a room itself.
That brevity sets up the one real rhyme. "Mind" at the end of the fourth line is answered by "find" at the end of the fifth, and the chime crosses the stanza break to link the place where the speaker builds with the thing the speaker hopes for. Everywhere else the poem avoids rhyme and punctuation. There are no capitals and no full stops, so the whole thing moves like one thought that never gets a firm ending.
The last couplet brings in the most unusual image: "in hopes to find / an upper night." The phrasing is tentative. The speaker says "in hopes," not "to reach," and "find," not "arrive," so everything stays provisional. "Upper night" is strange and hard to pin down. "Upper" suggests height, like an upper storey or the upper atmosphere, so I read it as a night above the ordinary one, darker, wider and more open than the blue room that holds the speaker. If so, the room is a launch point, a kind of capsule the speaker builds in order to leave it. The blue of the room gives way to the black of the sky, and the inward journey ends up looking outward again, which may be the poem's quiet joke about the word "intronaut."
The poem is worth reading for how much it does with so little. In about twenty words it gives us a paradox, a piece of invented vocabulary, a piece of architecture and a destination, and it shows its working through its own form. The lines are short and the room is small, and the poem builds only what it needs, which is what the speaker is doing too. It also treats imagination as a task with tools and directions, something you make rather than receive. And because it ends on a hope rather than an arrival, it leaves the reader standing in the blue room with the speaker, looking up.