The Fold

bright are the pictures kept in our minds
a canvas of something once left behind
and I still remember the tilt of the earth
bloom of the dogwood sweat on my shirt

but places change there is no returning home

tried to be something I couldn't be
seven years later it caught up to me
and death doesn't care about anyone's plans
when you last spoke or how soft you land

the days push forward there is no returning home
once you go

nights of silver days of gold
all these faces that I used to know
and signs on all the shops that changed
we drift apart we're turning away

and I was wrong about
the way the words would
fall out of my mouth

signal to turn off Wickenden street
the kid's dozing off in the backseat