Night-Snout At a famous restaurant a waiter places a bone cup before me containing a teaspoon of soup. Meanwhile you note that the angles of a certain theory meet too acutely, accent misplaced. I want to pour the soup on the thick plum carpet, but the gendarmes wouldn’t understand. We rise and march to the door. The night shoves its huge snout into the sky and drinks the fission of stars. The spirit of Apollinaire walks, coughing, through rainy streets. The river snores without conscience, its freight of cadavers digested though loved for whatever they were. You rant about polarized lines of force Leonardo sketched flowing about the symmetries that motivate a critical rage and force artists to favor the lopsided smiles of women, the hip-cocked arrogance of men. This is the rage you feel when you indict the failure of theory, your scruffy hair bristling, your chipmunk _expression spoiled by creases deeper than insults. Behind us the glare of restaurant illuminates the figure of Apollinaire in uniform,                              fresh from the trenches. The flu                      that will kill him already thickens the air. The night-snout puckers for another cosmic kiss.