The poem imagines a market where human organs and bones are sold like secondhand goods, and the buyers are people who have already lost what they need: heart, lungs, ribs, spine. It reads as a dark fable about people who feel emptied out, perhaps by hardship or by a society that values them little. The speaker joins the fair too, carrying "wounds" and hoping for a "landfilling," a way to fill the gaps. The seller's answer is blunt: filling is only a matter of time. The speaker goes home and leaves a wok in the garden to catch the monsoon rain, a small, quiet act of patience and a different kind of remedy.
Others keep trying purchase after purchase, but nothing fits their bodies. Even logic, reason, and solidarity fail them, undone by the "blinding shine of opportunity." The mood is wry, bleak, and unsettling, with an undercurrent of warning about what people trade away when they chase gain.