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In the Place des Vosges
William Wenthe
had raised a sort of alpenglow along
Eyes down, reading, I was unaware,
until the ring, forgotten on my hand,
began to glow; with rose and gold beyond
its own rose-gold. I raise my eyes --
there on a bench, in shadow grays,
my wife is reading. A beam of just-caught
reflected sunlight arrows a chestnut:
the inner limbs a blush of embers.
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