In just a few lines, the speaker describes how a single "excise" changes what things are called and what they mean. An excise is a kind of tax or cut, and the title plays on that sense of cutting something out. The result is a world where ordinary things are reclassified. A wing, which suggests lightness and flight, becomes a hand, something that works, grasps and can be counted. A house, normally a place of shelter, turns into a riot in the street, as if private life has been dragged into public disorder. Even the speaker's past is no longer settled memory but "an experiment," something to be tested or poked at by others.
The speaker's feeling seems to be quiet alarm, even a sense of loss. There is no shouting. The flat, short statements make the changes sound official and unstoppable. The mood is cold and unsettling, and the poem suggests how a rule or policy can shrink a person's freedom, home and history without ever raising its voice.