The speaker looks back on the moment work stopped, and it wasn't gentle. Digging nails into brows and wheezing suggests strain, perhaps relief and panic tangled together. The line "Now, I know, I knew, I am new" shows the shift: the self is being rebuilt, with the tenses stumbling over each other as it happens.
With leisure comes a different kind of attention. The speaker reads old words in a new way, listens to music through a door, and opens thoughts "from a closed file." Time becomes "a farness, a slowness," and the poem itself slows, leaving the single word "time" alone on its line.
The ending is the strangest part. The speaker is measured against exact things: a spirit level, a plumb line, a balance beam, all placed in a cool room where sperm and embryo are stored. The imagery hints at new beginnings, but also at being held in careful suspension. The mood is quiet, searching, and a little uneasy, as if rest is something the speaker must learn to live inside.