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.