--Sunday--

sunlit and pane shoningly   sill
  landingly stands the itch   scratching 
the day away from its short life   rubbing 
  its meathooks like some mad cow   a gut-filled 
suit of armor up at the breeze  like a 
  barbican without a princess   probing lazily 
for any forgetfulness or apathy
  buzzing headbumpingly
dapping its diamondeye   headbutting
  the hard dusk   the sun humorless   drowsily 
making its last rounds   and dinking
  plinking went the fly on the glass.