Let’s blow up all the tall buildings and turn them back into mountains. Let’s whittle the picnic tables into a fine dust, saving only the knots and whorls. We’ll keep them in our pockets for little whistles. Let’s gut our houses and leave the doors open, cool caverns for birds. Let’s cut away our jeans until they’re nothing. Let’s thumb our noses at the wind for the time being and also because we’ve forgotten where our tongues are. Let’s watch the moon slowly turning away from us at the cusp of each April. Let’s celebrate the birth, death and resurrection of Tammuz, the perfect, youthful god. Tammuz, alias Baldor, alias Jesus, alias Osiris is back from the dead. Let’s eat dates on our knees in the middle of a sealed room, on a prayer rug. Then, turning our lips back, clucking with our tongues and dancing, we’ll walk out of the door together, we’ll petrify into crystal on the walkway under an outrage of stars.