On the surface, this is a quiet evening walk. The speaker takes his dog Daisy out along a dark, lamp-lit path, and the poem opens by contrasting her size with her nature: sixty-six pounds of anger, the poem says, standing in for six pounds of fear. Once she's on the leash, she pulls ahead, sniffing at everything. The speaker seems to be more led than leading, held to an agreement that was "initialed / But never formally ratified."
Gradually the tone darkens. The walk becomes a way of measuring his loneliness, in footsteps that echo with "no place to go." His thoughts drift to a black hole and an "eventual horizon," then land on a stark question: when does it become reasonable to consider suicide? The final image, a service revolver weighed against "the weight of continuing to be," is the title's payoff. The mood is hushed, weary, and unsettling, because the speaker's calm, almost conversational voice makes the question feel all the more serious.