We paint all these rooms white without ever questioning the reasoning behind the labor. This fractured tongue hiding in the rafters. With it I saw holes in the ceiling between furring strips, collect grains of primer, plaster. Raster graphics embed the epithelial horizon with macros. Cue goosebumps. The battlefield in miniature called skin. Called race-gender. A very small patch of color or light held between body hair. Foundation or latent heat. And whose labor.

Trembling along the outskirts of corporeal consciousness, these and other awkward positions are a dance.