Gray rainbows in the nighttime irrigation. Immediately forgotten. Then I hear a child carry a tune in a whisper.   I was dashing through those ashen rainbows immediately forgotten. You could truncate butterfly to butte   and still get migration and a cumin route. But not camel. Not emu. Not Tuareg. Not a Russian garlic   dome like painted clove on steppe nor geodesic ostrich egg. Totally forgotten, til the child’s moonbow tune   whispered in what wagon, rickshaw, landau rattled me to a carrefour. I couldn’t tell the autumn from the drought,   crescent over Quonset hut, or put language to the pulp that made me ill. Inside the mouth of the water-flow monitors,   goblin goblin—robin. New World cicadas that chant in parabolas. A new address, a dryness, they stop. Focal chill.