Dave Bonta's poem argues that the body has a life of its own, one that doesn't stop when we die or even stay within our skin. The speaker starts with a playful claim: sensualists are cheerful because they sense this ongoing life. He pictures it working underground, in the soil, "busy as a bodhisattva with 1000 arms" or a hive with no leader. Nobody is in charge, yet everything gets done.
The octopus is the poem's most striking image. It changes its skin to vanish into its surroundings, though its eyes can't see color. The body, the poem suggests, knows things the mind doesn't. The ending widens out into music that begins "far below the pulse" and echoes on either side of the present moment, with rests built into it.
The mood is warm, curious, and quietly awed. The speaker seems comforted rather than frightened by the idea that we're part of something bigger and continuous.