Surrealism

Thongs on our arms or dangling from hooked fingers young and still new walking our baking feet in the wet of this late-day emptying expanse the sand white settling the sea talking like shells to a child's ear enticing A group of suited men Furniture Encroaching tides They grow closer distinctive In the public eye their voices frequently surf airwaves A poster pinned to the table becomes readable promotes White Australia We strike matches burn vote cards