The poem is, quite simply, about a man who loses his wife but does not want to, or doesn't know how to, say goodbye, to let go. I suppose we could call it closure, as all the TV shows currently tend to do. He doesn't have it, and he doesn't want it.
It's other people, when it comes down to it, who want closure for him. Surely he can't be happy now thinking about his wife's death. Surely not. And so they persuade him to think about it all the time, to analyse it as far as he can, to really delve into it and how it has made him feel. Even his magazine is now telling him what he should be feeling.
The man's grief, when he opens up to it, consumes him until he no longer wants to live with the pain. Any memories he had of his wife are now tainted by this grief. And time, instead of healing him, steals from him - steals the life he was managing to build alone.
I'm sure the people, the magazine writer, everyone, were just trying to help. I'm sure they thought they were doing the right thing, there was no malice involved.
But the man was doing okay.