We stand
staggered in a circle
gold-encrusted poles bolted
to the rotating floor beneath our tired
hooves.  Tomato sunburned children scramble
onto throbbing ashen backs, clutching at us with
sticky and and sugar-stained fingers.  The first strains
of music echo through our chiseled manes, eerie melodies
impossible to forget after the last children slides off the saddle.

We begin to move, slowly at first, then
           turning,                        
   spinning    
                           whirling,
                   wind
   rushing
across                  
our garish painted faces,
air smelling of syrupy sweat and roasted meat.

Jeering shouts of vendors and cackling shrieks of riders
penetrate our ringing ears with grating force.
Reds and yellows and blues bleed together,
spattering our spiraled vision with
dizzying palettes of primary hue.
Relentless ghost-like tunes,
around and around as
we rise and fall
rise and fall.