The poem reads like a few channels flipped past in the dark. It opens mid-thought, with something sending out "delicate rays," then jumps to the idea of a thing "to be sung, read, or eaten," as if art and food were the same kind of comfort. Then a voice cuts in, almost teasing: "You never heard of solitude?" The poem answers by placing it after the Late Show, when the eyes drift from the movie and attention slackens.
The speaker seems to be someone alone and half-watching, drifting between thoughts of the body, pleasure, and being by oneself. The odd, chatty "see?" makes the tone casual, even a little defensive. Then comes the sudden cowboy peering across a "great chasm," which feels like a snippet from the screen, or a picture of the distance between people. The mood is drowsy, fragmented, and quietly lonely, with a dry humor running underneath. The poem doesn't explain its jumps, and that gap is part of the feeling.