The poem
I starred that night, I shone: I was footwork and firework in one,
a rocket that wriggled up and shot darkness with a parasol of brilliants and a peewee descant on a flung bit; I was blusters of glitter-bombs expanding to mantle and aurora from a crown, I was fouéttes, falls of blazing paint, para-flares spot-welding cloudy heaven, loose gold off fierce toeholds of white, a finale red-tongued as a haka leap: that too was a butt of all right!
As usual after any triumph, I was of course, inconsolable.