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The lines imagine a natural human joy buried under industrial force and chemical escape.

Iron coal and steel presses against the image of babies meant to be laughing in the rain, so innocence is immediately set against a hard mechanical world. Our own storm gives that rain a double edge: it is both trouble and something native to us. No more chemical heaven sounds like a rejection of artificial consolation in favor of a harsher but truer life.

The body is cast as foundry product - 'Iron coal and steel' - yet 'Our bodies as babies / Were ment to be / Laughing in the rain / Of our own storm', a birthright the closing 'No more chemical heaven' refuses to trade away.

The opening line names the raw materials of industry, then immediately attaches them to infants, collapsing the distance between the smelter and the cradle so that the human being arrives already forged. 'Of our own storm' is the hinge: the rain to laugh in is not borrowed weather but something the body generates itself, native trouble that is also native joy. The isolated last line, set off below the stanza, reads as a verdict more than a wish - 'chemical heaven' is the manufactured consolation, the sedated cleaner alternative, and the speaker shoves it away to keep the harder, self-made storm. The dialect 'ment' is left standing, part of the unpolished grain the poem is defending.