Bend

Gravel road, empty for hours,

Curls up to the left, rising
Into the heights where it stops,
Out of sight. Decades ago,
Throughout North America,
That phrase meant good, amazing,
In the language of the young

Who are now old in these woods
And haven't said "outta sight"
Unselfconsciously, at all,
For years. What is out of sight
Is not amazing, is not
So different from what we see,
Past rising up before us.