he will come to you as a three-year old,
though you remember him as fifteen,
dragging your Norton around the block
so close to the ground


dressed in the green army shorts
always the green army shorts,
run
ragged at the knees

his small hand on your shoulder,
asking why you’re crying when you are asleep in your bedroom
why your dreams turn to him
turn to the Volkswagen
that turns over

it never stops turning over