Tongue and Groove1
Dave Smith
Forms a lock. But how does it begin in this world? The twig（嫩枝）
falls, snaring2（捕捉） another, and another, a storm's blackness
gathers and sends its will scudding3 down and over the quiet
niches of the forest, where a nest of barky remnants
holds, waiting it seems, and is then lifted, swirled4 away.
Like the afterlife. We never see where they land or in what shape.
We mimic5 what we can. We remember. We say this way.
The shadow man's fingers feel the groove. Fits to it
a piece of firm, now barkless（无树皮的） wood, slender and pliant6,
then into it, then deeper, snugly7（舒适地） , and carries it with him a while.
When the wall stands, ugly and crude, needing its wind-cover,
the hand, after the night with love, fashions plank8 and rib9,
wets for entry, slides, sees this cannot be easily parted.
Long years hold up the rich color, the vein-mapping.
Some like to sand hard, thinking to get back the early patina10（铜绿，光泽） .
My wife from the first wanted to paint it brilliant cloud white.
Such an old look, such dour11（严厉的） faces. At last I gave in.
The paper, medium rough, slid like a small hill of gravel12
loosing the smell of pine sap. I could see the shadow
felling the tree, making the rib, the lock, nailing up forever
what would soon be lost in the sailing white, layered like mist
you cannot see through. The little nail holes puttied-in,
like eyes, slab13 after slab shoulder to shoulder, knots where
limbs grew, room like a snow-crypt. We live here.
Still, I know stains will rise some day, the lock split apart.
收听单词发音 
