Through the window, cars, trucks, sirens, street-lamps,
they’re all searchlights. They plunge deep into this room,

throw shadow into panic. Who are they looking for?
They’ve uncovered the Renoir print above the dresser.

The shirts, the trousers in the closet. The ceramics.
The poster. The banners. So what? They ripple fifteen faces

in nine photographs. Yes, there’s a part of me in every one
but just you try finding them. Meanwhile, the cynosure

of all things me is lying prone on the bed, head in pillow,
body under sheets. Their inquiring angles cannot reach me.

And even if they could, a sleeping face is one more
mask to repudiate the waking disguise. Shine all you want.

I’m beyond what you reveal. Even I can’t figure me out
and I constantly stick me under the hottest, brightest lights of all.

Yes, the unknowable has got you there.

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in The Lyric, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge, Southern California Review and the Oyez Review.