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in the place des vosges
william wenthe
hid below the rooflines' 1, the sun
had raised a sort of alpenglow along
the brick 2 across the square.
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:
full 3 darkening behind her,
the inner limbs a blush of embers.
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