What structure of feeling is at work in the factory’s / reclaimed look? What form of work is fabricated / there? What ambiguous mood looks good, like a / warm gray fabric lined on the inside with the most / lustrous and colourful of silks, as language is left / aside, as abstractions move through bodies, such as / mine? What mode of erasure is at work, fabricating / an altered reality, cutting the corner of history, / cutting out the capacity to, say, fashion a more / fitting relation to one’s work—as the gallery / intersects with the production line, ideas running / freely through the assemblage of minds rotating / roles of producer and consumer? What work is left in / the indirect light of a seemingly totalizing / inscription, in the relaxed appearance of an / inherently alienating situation, endlessly spooling / with the impatience inherited from the impatience of / mechanization? What part is tangled in the warp and / weft of misrecognition, in the wearing out of certain / words by repetition, in the unfinished look of a / subject laboring, deskilled, to fabricate an identity, as / this is the only work left to do, as debt accumulates / exuberantly, as desire carries on a production within / fantasy, returning again and again to the bitter / promise of vacancy? What fits? What is left over? / What rich lustre of a dreary gleaming sequence, / sheltering in a disinterested, tonic weightlessness, / along the splintered edge of something hidden from / the senses, a finely wrought refrain, a repainted, / unnamable omission, an unremarkable / unconscious form of resistance, against a white wall, / waiting.*