Emerging from the theatre foyer
to the plaza's neon space -
a regiment of champagne flutes
on the eve of a campaign,
hors d'oeuvres arranged in stylish
pyramids, to general acclaim,
and all the first-night thespians
abuzz with vapid names -
you walk like a somnambulist,
delicately slender, pale,
your clothes a gossamer so thin
the wind-riffs pass through you and them.
You're caught between the stage
and this obscenely unprotected place,
where eyes devour you like an oyster,
avid to discover more;
surrounded by a certain aura,
phosphorescent, pure as pain,
an envelope of air
they'd like to tear open,
but do not dare…
for Larisa