Sitting on the roof, I scoop muck
from the metallic shelf, a domestic precipice.

It sprays out, smelling earth-moist.
Wind-stuffed greenery grows into sediment.

Burnt crisp, leafy fingers reach out.
I lift the undigested from hard bowels,

drop it into my dirt bucket, that browns
like broken coffee filters. Again, I submerge

my fingers into sooty water. Pine needles
bend through, like limp snakes, saturated.

On the bottom, the spatter echoes famously.
Fists of water rumble with each handful.

The spilling happens, down the bucket,
off the roof. The ground wets internecine.