Balzac has a secret —
his impeccable romance,
crazy beyond concern,
unripe fruit of the sycamore tree,
boisterous down by the river of the unkept docks,
he delivers,
untuned to his calling,
a beating box
deaf to its own lone chime,
inaudible even to passers by,
set in burgundy and marble pequins;
he is hungry, eating his own regards,
unknown still to a race that calls his name —
Balzac —
dancing beauregard.
the blasarium 
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