They used to ask my brother what he wanted to be:
What are you gonna be when you grow up, Paul?
He wanted to be a tractor so he could plow the moon.

My moon-farmer brother, planting albino corn and phosporescent radishes,
raising lunar chickens and star-eyed goats whose cheese
tastes of dehydrated oceans and shadows. You want to be a farmer,
he was told. Not the tractor. Paul was sure

he wanted to be a tractor, toes transformed
into rotors dragging gray dust which never settles. His breath
would stink of burnt oil, boiled into gear-teeth for smooth movement
He would eat .