Alison Meyers          Husband And Wife Second Prize Sprint 2004 Poetry Contest   I.   He is a carpenter who squares everything up before saying wall, floor, roof, house, stores dreams, shining screws, in a box. Careful, he drafts plans, saves for a rainy day. His canvas apron bulges with disappointments like so many nails, always at hand.   II.   She asks only for some true shape, as when four crows pose equidistant, black quadrangle in the rain. Heads bob, beaks peck for worms, contrapuntal. The lawn is impossibly green. She waits behind a window, thinks, there is some plan in this.   III.   Foil paper on the sidewalk is junk, discarded wrapper from a cigarette box. Or a silver crane, origami between flights.