Tongue and Groove

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.