The poet, upon observing a Stanford sunset,
Describes description. He peers at himself
Filtering through boughs, cresting over hillsides,
Unexplored on the veins of canvas.

A frank speculation on twilight
Must now be captured. Enmeshed. Neutered.

He stops, thinks, weighs, inveighs, 
Demurs, hates, self-immolates, Samsara.
Even the slightest chance of
Absolution
Fettered (!) by teleological malaise.

Or is it technological? American? All the same—
The sun has long set. The poet, uh, missed it.