The speaker addresses an imaginary child, someone he conjures up so vividly that he can list its flaws: buck teeth, poor eyesight, sleepless nights, all inherited. The tone is teasing and tender at once. He calls the child a "long-distance runner" and an "apostate," picturing a restless wanderer who follows animal trails rather than the usual paths. He even predicts its "ruin," though he says it with a shrug, as something as natural as breathing.
Underneath the jokes is loneliness. The birds never spoke to him, but he imagines them calling this child by name. He also admits the world won't miss "one more neurotic primate lover," which is a wry way of undercutting his own hopes and fears.
The ending slows into a quiet image: bindweed turning gold in the lilac, and bottles left in windows above strangers' graves to catch winter light. The mood is wistful and gently funny, with a sense of small beauty made from what's left behind.