Man in the Plum Colored Suit

1.

The man in the plum colored suit celebrates by watching
the skink in the sun on the wall,
tall lilies hatching,
and waves at it all with his hat,
his tall red hat.

The man in the plum colored suit reaches in his sack,
pulls out fruit as if out of a hat.
As soft as spruce is,
his hand can clamp down hard as the frost,
if the thought amuses.

 The man in the plum colored suit carries out his joking
with a full set of teeth in his head.
He does his poking
with one finger only. He is death
and he rides death's pony.

He is sunshine and breath. He is wind.
He is fertile ground
or is arid as his fancy may use us.
He absorbs our bruises
and returns them like mice to his hat,
to his tall red hat.

 2.

 Old John, he is known as the Baptist,
sets aside his smoke.
The tobacco he dries and saves up
is the seed of dock.
The branches of sumac he loves
raise a firm red flame.
The stems of pokeberries 
glow brightly.

John sits alone
as silent on a log as a frog.
That he waits is known: what it is 
he awaits 
is the question.

At the moment he appears to be sleeping.
He has succumbed
like a wasp
to the dark rums of summer.

 He is both numb
and delighted at what he has done 
and has left undone.

 He has given up drinking
and fighting.
His sand, you could say, 
is run.

The days of his sweetness
are numbered
and he has come
to rest
in remembering and dreams.

 He no longer cares
blackberry vines have turned rusty,
milkweed has gone
in its thick rubber condoms to silk.

He is up to his hilt in the sun,
sunflowers hung
like searchlights gone out
all around him.