The speaker opens by arguing that science is wrong to say we have only five senses, because there is also a sense of time and of pain that no lab measures. From there the poem turns to a mother who seems to be losing her memory to a disease. The speaker squeezes their eyes shut, trying to block out images, sounds and smells that hurt, yet still sees the mother's wide, staring eyes.
Time, the speaker says, lives only in memory, so it stands still for those who can no longer remember. The speaker recalls the mother holding a baby, and asks what she felt then. One small moment of recognition, a kiss on the hand in the twilight, flickers like moonlight through coconut fronds. The mood is tender, grieving and quietly resigned. By the end the speaker is ready to give one last hug, and the closing return to science suggests that grief and love go far beyond what is measurable.