Look away with loathing,
Stare offstage with scorn,
Turn your back
When I speak.
Be silent.
Play that part.
Your naked back
Is sculpture
Whatever your mood.
Your hair aflame
However you brood.
Your sinuous spine,
Your dorsal shine,
Your angered limbs
All speak to me.
They have their say
When you turn away.
Show me the glint
Of your cold shoulder.
Show me the glisten
Of your naked rage.
Show me the tension
In those tendons.
Let me enjoy
This mood you’re in.
Your naked back and I
We conspire
Like criminals.
Alan Platt