On a night like this

warm air wrapping your body

crickets more desolate than silence

small things rustling in leaves

your sweat and the lush air

smudging the boundary between you

and the humid atmosphere

there should be perfume

and a lover's whisper

and a blues band

but your silence

and the whir of the chain

are their own music

distant traffic

is its own whisper

and memory

is perfume