Less and Less

Last summer I spilled coffee on my favorite pair of jeans
so I cut a hole the shape of a star
and now only wear them to bed.

Often I wake in the morning to the sound
of a foghorn.
I am neither near an ocean or dreaming.

Later I crave red currents and a sunset. 
I have neither. I eat a popsicle
in the bathtub and hope it helps. 

Sometimes I think I see her hands
on my windowpane before I close the shade.
I suffocate more than usual with cotton
stuffed up my mouth.
I breathe like I'm running just to witness
my own sweat.

My little sister buries a plum in the garden
and tells me to wait.
"Just you see," she says, "next year we'll be eating purple orbs."
I throw my head back and gaze at the sky.
"Maybe" I whisper at her receding back.
She is so unlike a plum.
I wonder why she wants them.