I've been counting the winds of history
that which blows through a window cracked
and noticing the turks in the hills
measuring the length of the camel hair
the grind of teeth bringing oranges -
or the longship slipping out of the fjord
and spotting the lapis among the amber
the slaver with glistening teeth
wrapped tight to the sandstorm wind
it does not blow toward the sun
nor eddy in the narrow path
yet as I piss to the left
this breeze intoxicates around my chin
all knottiness is cut
what remains is the myth of me
The Blue Book
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