We do not imagine the writer during
interstices, just as we do not imagine
the climber reposed at base camp,
savoring the inertia. Throwing a ball
with his friends, the resistance in his
quadriceps as he sprints after an errant
throw. Shucking corn and dicing
onions, lost in the mundane procedures
of dinner. Paddling far from shore on
the lake when it quiets to glass, waiting
for the day’s color to ripen, then fail.