If you're thinking of going to Syracuse,
   be modest and do not expect
the bronze warriors of Reggio

Hatless, in mocking whiteface, Carl Schurz stands,
tricked by the tempest out of blackest bronze.

They are nosing the cloudy walls
of the tank with their gaping mouths and flat
unspeculative eyes. Green and rose

how to cut out and burn the heart, gall and liver
   of a great fish, which was probably a crocodile,

But look, there—who is that one, hurrying
Around the corner, swallowed by the crowd?
Already his face is vague—the only thing 

Bewildered now to be so unalike,
Who were for one another from the start
The kind of perfect double that we all

This 50-ish frump, rat’s-nest brittle hair
             frittered by stress;
scalp daily raked to amend one last damsel flare

2 motors flaring stoked their raucous joke;
twin fans, reversed, sucked up stiff acrid smoke.

           At forty, she’s had it, slow to go, can’t quit the scene,
                    still aching for dressing-room noise,
                    one-night-stands, divine chorus-boys.