I walked out on the roof to clip my fingernails.
It was a quiet night. The stars shone.
Soon the clippings made a small but noticeable pile.
I went back in, showered, went to bed.
By morning the pile was larger.
The next day the roof began to sag.
I took a snow shovel to the roof
and pitched them, hand over hand,
into the dooryard below. This became a daily task.
The grass, the lilacs in the dooryard died,
suffocated for light. The first-floor windows
filled like apothecary bottles.
There was nothing shocking or disturbing about this.
It was what we'd been wanting all along.
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