Issue 68, Winter 1976
In her dream
the wind blew her vagina out the bedroom
down the Spanish steps
into the moonlit alleys.
There’s no need to say much
not much about such a freeflying vagina.
Tarquin Jr., son of Tarquin the Proud
stood by his draperies scratching his insomnia
thinking of poems
when it fluttered like a butterfly
gone crazy for his nose.
He grabbed it:
he only wanted to write a poem
but when he touched its soft lips
it whispered its maiden name
& he broke into nervous laughter.
Before dawn another gust returned it
to Lucrece dreaming of levitation.
Tarquin Jr., had planted kisses
& tied Turkish ribbons to each pubic hair.
The Roman republic was never quite the same.