The speaker sits in the sun, listening to a man confide something deeply private: he was born with crooked legs, slept in braces, and has never been able to reach orgasm. He also speaks of the shock treatments he endured. The speaker listens, and her mind moves from his individual suffering to a larger question: who is to blame? She follows the chain outward, from his parents to society to "us all, of me," and then recalls a friend's letter quoting the I Ching's idea of "No Blame."
The title suggests two people linked without knowing it, and the poem finds that link in pain. The speaker says it is "the same pain / that makes us love one another," even among near strangers. The mood is quiet, tender and unsettled. Warm grass and music sit beside memories of hurt. The ending refuses an easy answer. Blame isn't assigned or dismissed but "held in our hands / one by one," something each person has to carry.