Clifton King

The garden is raucous with yellow and orange.
I find a bench in the shade.
Gravel pathways crunch beneath the crush of tourists.
A muted mix of Italian, French, that proper King's English,
...

When you ride a motorcycle
it’s not important the roads you travel
lead to where you’re going.
...

There is nothing more enchanting
than a woman fresh from a bath,
skin still damp beneath a wrap
of terrycloth; that faint fragrance
...

I bought this house for the porch,
open to the west toward the Pacific.
Ocean breezes curl above the railing
and nudge our windbell into song.
...

Sea and sky, a meld of grays
before a retiring north wind.
An ebb tide leaves behind
those worthless passengers
...

A serpentine line of bodies
stretches along the boulevard.
People standing shoulder to shoulder
in the rain,
...

We were there in The Haight, flowers in our hair, beads around
our neck, doe eyed girls bared their breasts, brandished bras;
boys, not yet men, burned draft cards, numbers in the devil’s lottery, political punishment for being born.
...

I don’t own a pair
of Sunday shoes,
leather tanned
from the hide
...