I don’t see them

portrait of a man in glass

grandparents and parents

before them old potato

farmers grape cultivators

cobblers of leather / the light-

skinned tucked

beneath the southern border of

blonde-headed Switzerland

and from the center-west boot kicking

Sicily into Tunis as they say

in Lucca to ward-off demon Cosa Nostra /    

then navigating the glass, the pentimento

of my skin barely reflected and even with

all that blood I don’t see them.