Have never kept bees, only been backstage as a musician, and my only sense of dance is that it is a controllable form of vertigo, both in the doing of it and the effects it can generate in the viewer - all of which has todos y nada to do with this poem or the fact that it and I are spacing the same cognate of time on PFray.

Poem has the smoothe, gravid rumple that is sort of like looking into a cloakroom - short glance causing perk-up, longer glance filling in a little more space, in this case, between the sweat and glitter involved, then, in imperfect ways, on to the actual human stuffs that might pertain: not lightening-bolt, but entirely worthy of eyes into the lime-lit.

Poem suits its dance setting very well, lines of different rhythm, color, and accent. Poem also gives a sense of tone to the wherewithal of dance, dancers, the familiarity of the "I persona" to all of that, and the unfathomable of the 'zaydee' figure, all which gives a cabaret aura to the poem, an ambering in progress of a wherewithal that has a variety of histories, but is not bound to them in terms of impediment. All very pleasant, slightly mysterious stuff.

What the "I persona" occupys within the poem is a whole other set of considerations. Can't go there, 'cause I ain't got the time. But this is the sort of poem, I feel, that tastes better with every new bite. Wish I could offer more. (exunt, stage cyber)