Nostalgia

I write to you from foreign nations.
You blithely sanguine while I,
obsessed with content,
dream with sheep's eyes.

In this dark scrapbook we live a life
far from this age, and there, all fruit
is ripe and your song is sweet.
Maladie du pays.

Life after death, your shroud covers me
like musty memories. Who would think I
would embrace it like a quilt of old friends?

Silence after the blur of our posing for
pictures at the beach,
exchanging letters, caresses.
Was I in a fog all those years?