I guess this is a poem about those things we know exist, but we can't perceive them.
The figure behind the drape moves closer, then farther, then nowhere away. The shape we can see, but the colors, we cannot say. We know what it is- we noted it, measured it, recorded it when we can. Because the figure would come and go without a hint nor demand. Random movements taunt us as our curiosity grows, wanes, then decays. Soon it is out of our attention, but once again, the drape shows the unshown. For who may say for certain the known is known, the unknown, unknown. The drape we know, the shape we know, but the figure itself not. What is it? The question begs us, and puts us under seige. Then we rest in comfort, that on the other side, the figure cannot see us as well. But perhaps it need not, not because of secrets untold, but because the figure has its curiosity under control. The figure does as it please, while we remain captive to it, and our own insecurity.