The poem describes a still life the way a painting might be described, item by item: flowers, a bible, a jar of pencils, a table covering. Then the ordinary scene tips over. The pencils have tiny, fierce faces and wings, and in the middle of the table sits Van Gogh's ear, "no longer fresh," leaving a drop of blood on the lace. The speaker's tone is calm and almost matter-of-fact, which makes the strange and gruesome details feel even odder.
The ending shifts the poem again. Outside the window, the field is of "what we presume / are red poppies," and the speaker adds that this is what "we're meant to presume." That small twist suggests the speaker doubts what the picture is showing us. The mood is unsettled and darkly playful, a mix of beauty, violence, and suspicion. The poem seems to ask how much we simply accept because a scene is arranged to make us accept it.