Unfinished Things

On the road out of town,
past the last straggle of houses,
each further one more disheveled,
as if some force of town-ness
dissipates at the edges
so that houses become random
and roads wander from the grid,
there is a cement pad and stack
of prefab roof trusses,
weathered and gray from winters and summers
sitting out uncovered.

Someone meant to build something.
Whatever energy inspired his plan
petered out past the end of town.
It must be too hard to keep at it there,
looking out at unmarked ground.
You find unfinished things at that border
where people don’t cross over
into what might happen.
Over there is a revealing light.
Ghosts can cast shadows
of the past. Hidden selves
can be exposed.