On page 270 of the fourth
volume of Proust (‘Cities
of the Plain’) one hits
the first and last sh__t,
carefully woven in there
where it belongs, along
with everything else.
How I admire and envy
such style–such minute
glittering perfection of
texture; like the tiny
threads in my friend Lee
Metzger’s Yves Saint Laurent
coat he loaned me on his
honeymoon balcony, I was
so cold and covered with it.