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Scrim

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I sit here in a shelter behind the words   
Of what I’m writing, looking out as if   
Through a dim curtain of rain, that keeps me in here.   

The words are like a scrim upon a page,   
Obscuring what might be there beyond the scrim.   
I can dimly see there’s something or someone there.   

But I can’t tell if it’s God, or one of his angels,   
Or the past, or future, or who it is I love,   
My mother or father lost, or my lost sister,   

Or my wife lost when I was too late to get there,   
I only know that there’s something, or somebody, there.   
Tell me your name. How was it that I knew you?

Source: Poetry (February 2009)

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This poem originally appeared in the February 2009 issue of Poetry magazine

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Scrim

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