Morning rain leaves a floor slick, and the speaker slips while reaching for raindrops. The fall is described plainly and physically: the ground "distances itself," gravity pulls the head down, and a broken nose gives up its blood almost without a fight. There is a small, bitter tenderness in the image of kissing rain, grit and dirt.
The second half shifts from the accident to the aftermath. A plaster with a blue butterfly bow sits on the knee, a cheerful detail that clashes with the pain underneath. Then comes the striking line: even in the afternoon, the speaker is "still in the floor, exactly where I fell." The poem suggests the fall isn't only about a body. The speaker seems stuck, unable to remember how to get up. The ending hopes that by bedtime the knowledge will return and the butterfly will have flown away. The mood is quiet, weary and dryly gentle, with hurt carried in small, ordinary details.