Z: Ma Chere (translated into French then back)

Mud-coloured hair the full length of an umbilical cord
From which, emerging, wellies in a stream, her bare shoulders.
Cliffs of Dover.

After my galumphing syllabics came her quick typewriter gasps,
The mot juste t?te a t?te but without ceremony - yeasty and
risen.

We would do passionless love, discussing, all the while, the
shape
Of her breasts, my keen Gallic hips, her admirable cheek bones
And the tattoos of trains, planes, footballers and tunnels that we'd
got
Inked on our thighs, when we were drunk, on shore leave.