Once, as a child,

an explorer,

I saw a trace.

Tucked between rows of stones

in a stonewall lit by sunlight

was a shiny near see-through snakeskin.


The fascinating fragile skin

was equal to the thing,

not a trace it was to me

but as real as the snake

it had contained.


How often we chase-

looking for what?-

the trace.

The scent of fresh bread brings an ache for happiness lost

we eat some.

It ‘s the memory of the magic,

gliding in and out of beds and rooms and cities

with the good love,

that now draws us closer to the wrong stranger.


How often do we choose

the ghost instead of the thing,

the skin instead of the now.


©  SelinaKV  2018