Bring me the sunset in a cup.
The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.
The world we suggest is a new wild west. A sensuous evil world. Strange and haunting, the path of the sun.
Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai.
The young moon has fed Her exhausted horn With the sunset's fire.
Huge lemons, cut in slices, would sink like setting suns into the dusky sea, softly illuminating it with their radiating membranes, and its clear, smooth surface aquiver from the rising bitter essence.
I don't know anybody who goes horseback riding at sunset, but everybody watches TV and eats.
The sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West.
The sacred lamp of day Now dipt in Western clouds his parting day.
Figures dark beneath their loads pass down the far bank of the river, rendered immortal by the streak of sunset upon their shoulders
