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.