Mysteries of the Asylum

our home suffers from a lack of flowers though 
houseplants spring from the dank 
corners of the living room     grow large 
waxy leaves in the shape of boats or
hands  and the view is astounding in those
rooms made of windows    sometimes  when 
.
we argue about  for example  the car or
my virginity  the sky  suddenly opens
us up with its humming red molecules
of oxygen  purple clouds and gold make-believe 
hills until we forget our words  just shake 
our heads and leave through opposing 
.
doors   it is damp and oppressive with light   none 
of my crayon horse portraits stay taped 
to the kitchen wall    by morning  they have slid 
down to the tile floor and curled up like dying 
slugs            when it rains the roof
.
thrums like a hollow shoe box    no one ever
brings home yellow roses to pause 
in a blue vase       sometimes we sit outside on the hill
above the house (where we buried our pets) and chew
grass and sometimes we hit each other on the head
and wander into the forest          sometimes we kiss
.
and make up but still no flowers   no one sleeps 
much we worry we will miss something important  
one Sunday    a small mountain lion leaps 
onto our roof    we call  all our friends and 
whisper      by Christmas he is
 .
gone but sometimes we see tracks 
in the vegetable garden next
to the stunted squash