Reading this poem feels like catching pieces of thought as they flicker past. It doesn't tell a story or follow a clear argument. Instead it jumps between images: the brain "on the fly," a question about "how many clocks," the "border / of the cortex." The opening seems preoccupied with the mind and with time, as if thinking itself were something hurried and hard to pin down.
The middle grows stranger. Words like "skyscraper," "scent," "bulb," and "thing" sit alone on their lines, almost like objects picked up and set down without explanation. Then the poem turns more pointed. It denies that something is "capitalism / licking its toes," and ends with war eating "the desires / of a human blur."
The speaker's feeling is hard to name exactly, but the mood is uneasy and alert. Private thought gives way to larger, harsher forces, and people seem to dissolve into a blur under them. The broken lines make the reader work, which suits the sense of a mind overloaded by its surroundings.