Inhalation

At the top of stairs
or entering a doorway;
in the blink of a flowering hour
you can fall through flowers,
you can lose the illusion of now;

tongue the memory of a girl’s mouth
as walls dissolve around you
by the inadvertent bloom of a kiss;

and there you are again:
pressed-up against Cheryl Long
under the link-house
in the dark delirium of fumbling night;

swallowing the tang of sherbet,
your mouth full of flowers
flushed with a surfeit of breath
only to be flung
gasping back to now.