The speaker is trying to understand a lover and admits he can't. He begins with art: even a painter as bold as Matisse or Picasso, he says, would only make her face more secretive, not less. Paintings of the nude interpret a body without ever explaining the person inside it.
The second and third stanzas turn to physical closeness. Touching, holding hands, sleeping together, long kisses: none of it cracks the mystery. The "dark womb" suggests something hidden and origin-like, a place that stays closed even in intimacy. By the end, the speaker doubts that mind and silence alone amount to the love "we seek." That love seems to require something more, a joining of "wit and soul," and the word "squeezing" hints at the strain of forcing them together.
The mood is quiet, puzzled and a little melancholy. It isn't angry. It's the honest ache of being close to someone and still feeling a gap that neither art nor touch can close.