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103 JEANETTE CLOUGH QUIET Last night the windows shook with it, shaking me asleep and awake. Light makes a sound, a kind of jingle in the day’s throat quietly, as a thicket of marble crosses viewed from the uncarved side. As a hundred-foot swell coming to shore until it breaks itself; whatever is under its lip. A glass of water makes a sound like glance. The windows shake with it: eye movements, sheet lightning, the noise of will. ...

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