They’re baptizing people in the river again

and though the Dreisam is no Jordan I want to raise my hand and say yes, me. I’m ready for an enthusiastic Christian hippie to lead me down the bank and slowly dip my whole body backwards into the cold, green water to great applause. Who’s a heretic now? The tree heavy with pears in September some electric feeling out of reach most days, minor revelations. The name of the perfume my therapist wears. Might it save me? Might it be the answer to everything? Like you, I have come across a chapel in the woods a stone hut set in snow, a place to kneel. And how many times have I prayed? We’ll all die and we’ll regret the way we lived on earth. It’s impossible to see now. Like the warm day that comes at the end of spring when you look at your winter coat and think how ridiculous. Why did I ever wear such a thing? Why would I ever need to put this on my body again?