Coordinates

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Coordinates by Alex Wilson

The tyrannosaur is not gone.
It stands at 66 million years south,
the way Chicago is west of here—
You could walk there if your legs were made of something other than years.
The ferns might remember the route.

And the tyrannosaur is not waiting,
it is mid-stride,
mouth open to the humid air,
unaware that from here it looks like bone,
like silence, like a thing that ended rather
than a thing that continues
in a country we cannot visit.