Iconoclasts End Self-Imposed Exile

Sharp wind off the continent

Lifts the black water into blades.

We're crossing soon,

Abandoning the polished halls of leisure

To span the bridge to flight,

Returning to the tasered mainland,

Its sums and ossified systems

Dulling the sheen modestly won

Barefoot on sand, shirtless in wind,

Smoothed by a natural sway,

Sea music we'll hear

Until the bastards wear us down.