Layabout: A {Self-Portrait} Poem

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

dreamy legs,

stare until my eyes don’t know

their former binary life:

open;

closed.

I could with each particle become them,

spend this life and the next in nothing,

joy.