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I'm sorry I don't have more on hand 
that makes people wonder 
for the sake of our starving hearts, 
nature 
I picture whole streams, new currents, 
Any brick will do. 
Lacquered over 
... 

And yet, there's still so much to be done 
in the house 
If nothing else, it at least gives me a chance 
to think 

RUN

This is to reassure his viewers, who continually fear his death.
like Kafka's essay
I see it,
Without anguish, quietly drifting.
A nameless Bird — a Stranger
I would rest a bit there or take a plane—
I won't be held accountable
The arc of stars
I picture whole streams, new currents,
galactic slurs even, luminescences, plasmas,
And yet, there's still so much to be done
playing for a moment in the air—even shapes
She tugs down the map to look and it flies up again like a windowshade.