The Dreaming City

Palm trees are not practical.
They crane their straining necks aloft,
Thrusting their tufted tops into the sky,
Like nothing so much as birds –
Teetering, ungainly birds –
Chimerical, unlikely birds –
With heads too small and necks too big
And bodies buried in the pregnant sand.

This is a palm-tree city.
It isn’t practical.
It sprawls between mountain and ocean,
Dreaming its hope-fueled helium dreams,
Gorging itself on saltwater and sun,
Wheeling its dealings endlessly,
Believing its own mad myth.

The veins of the dreaming city
Pulse with gleaming cars;
Its tufted spires brush the sky;
It dreams the dreams of the world.