I want to erase your footprints br from my walls. Each pillow br is thick with your reasons. Omens br br fill the sidewalk below my window: a woman br in a party hat, clinging br to a tin-foil balloon. Shadows br br creep slowly across the tar, someone yells, "Stop!" br and I close my eyes. I can't watch br br as this town slowly empties, leaving me br strung between bon-voyages, like so many clothes br on a line, the white handkerchief br br stuck in my throat. You know the way Jesus br br rips open his shirt br to show us his heart, all flaming and thorny, br the way he points to it. I'm afraid br br the way I'll miss you will be this obvious. br br I have a friend who everyone warns me br is dangerous, he hides br bloody images of Jesus br around my house, for me to find br br when I come home; Jesus br behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked br br into the mirror. He wants to save me br but we disagree from what. My version of hell br is someone ripping open his shirt br br and saying, Look what I did for you. . .