The subtlest smirk closes in on an untold joke; the heavy eyelids weighed down by ponderous thoughts; the broad nose a bridge to the mind; the fragile inverse window of tiny spectacles. William Butler Yeats and David Foster Wallace don’t have much in common, except to say that the latter did perhaps the far opposite of rhyming, his work mired in syntactical and phonetic difficulty. Notice what looks to be a faint scar on WBY’s cheek, and its uncanny reflection in DFW’s deep crease at the same place. But only one is wearing a bandana, so we know who the gangsta is. That it is white, a soft surrender.