I could dream for days.
I could eat dreams for
every meal and bang my utensils
on the table for more.
I could engage
my dreams in clever philosophical
debates and write dissertations on not.
I could lay about and brush my fingers
through my dreams’ dreamy hair,
down along those
stare until my eyes don’t know
their former binary life:
I could with each particle become them,
spend this life and the next in nothing,