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