<murray's "eleven poems"> 2003-05-15.12:10 a.m. Eleven Poems Les Murray That wasn't horses: that was rain yawning to life in the night on metal roofs. Lying back so smugly phallic, the ampersand in the deck chair of itself. Spirituality? she snorted. And poetry? They're like yellow and gold. Being rushed through streets at dusk, by trees and rain, the equinoctial gales! The best love poems are known as such to the lovers alone. Creek pools, grown top heavy, are speaking silver-age verse through their gravel beards. Demure as a navel; and like a cat on wet grass-- but they'll be a pair. Tired from understanding life, the animals approach man to be mystified. A spider walking in circles is celebrating the birthday of logic. To win me, they told me all my bad attitudes but they got them wrong. Filling in a form the simple man asks his mother Mum, what sex are we? back /& forth /& frosting names are often sad