The speaker is looking back on a stretch of isolation while working on a chapbook, and the memory comes out in flat, stacked statements: quarantined, a mental breakdown, a shaved head. Each one begins with "i," and the repeated line breaks make the speaker feel cut off, as if every sentence stands alone in an empty room. There are no commas or connecting words to explain how one event led to the next, so the breakdown and the haircut sit side by side without comment.
The feeling is numb and unmoored. When the speaker says "dont know what there is / except this virus," the world seems to have shrunk down to one threat and one small space. Then the last line, "and eight days passed away," lands quietly. Time doesn't move forward so much as vanish. The mood is bare, tired, and a little eerie, the sound of someone describing a crisis without the energy to dramatize it. Even the lowercase, unpunctuated style suggests a mind too worn out to tidy itself up.