Still Turning

Heat.
Hey, Heat
High above the your hand finds mine
The turning wheel slows to a crow
You trace a circle
On my open palm
As if there's nothing
Underneath it all
Below us.
Someone folds the striped umbrellas
The painted horses lose their
And singing] glow
You tilt your head
Until our temples touch
And let the whole town
Carry on below.
Heat.
Heat.