Under Construction Poem by Glenn Bagshaw

Each separate life means many times one dies
for ends don't close a one-strand simple thing
but hive the network of all that appprise
the cords in us; recorded, we still sing
until refrain will close in silent pain.
To browse our photos- once more still as young
for two seconds and never then again;
bank's named accounts may save us, though we're hung.


So think of different things that make us up!
Our lives are pieces, sort of a la carte;
we're foe and friend, tossed salad, shelled scallop
or gait, or glove, our tries at doodled art;
next view that portrait-note her pleading eyes!
Since you will turn away: again she dies.