Published in Overland Issue 206 Autumn 2012 · Uncategorized Sonar Toby Fitch From a drunken cruise on the harbour comes a bouncing melody: I wanna have sex on the beach. Anyone can see it on everyone’s mind As the summertime trees nod assent In the Botanic Gardens, Their scent wafting up the nostrils Of skyscrapers breathing in fumes, Pumping out bucks, Relaying UV to the ant-sized joggers Who bound up and down along the shoreline On sand grains jostling for legroom. Above them, birds, checking out the goods Of a small grey woman staring at the bridge, Thinking: I wanna walk across water Like sound, as her skin remembers a distant Prickling, another season, A sun and a wind that lifts her hairs. Toby Fitch Toby Fitch (he/they) is a lecturer in creative writing at the University of Sydney, former poetry editor of Overland, and the author of eight books of poetry, including Sydney Spleen (2021) and Object Permanence: Calligrammes (2022). A ninth collection, Or: An Autobiography, will be published in 2026 by Upswell Publishing. Toby lives on unceded Gadigal land with his partner, their three children and a staffy. More by Toby Fitch › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 22 May 2026 · Friday Poetry Judas goats Caitlin Maling Because goats can climb / and cave, clamber to find cover / in the bushes of what they can’t eat / which isn’t much. 20 May 202620 May 2026 · Reviews Are you experienced? Louis Armand Pam Brown’s poetry has been described as both conversational and deeply layered, its historical consciousness seemingly belied by a fragmentary, diaristic style. An easy comparison might be drawn with the work of her long-time friend Ken Bolton, which often achieves a sense of over-arching unity of vision expressed in monologue form. Bolton’s work can appear exhaustive — long prose-like stanzas — where Brown’s seems to flicker down the page like dawn through the mangroves on the drive to Cronulla.
