"The presence of poetry is still to come: it comes from beyond the future and does not stop coming when it is here. A temporal dimension different from the one of which the time of the world has made us masters is at play in language when language lays bare, by the rhythmic scansion of being, the space of its unfolding. Nothing certain seems to appear. Whoever clings to certainty or even to the lower form of probability is not on the way to "the horizon," any more than is the traveling companion of the musical thought whose five ways of being played are played in that intimacy of chance."
~ Maurice Blanchot, from The Book to Come
I am fixated on that horizon, on the temporal dimensions of poetry. It's an immensely painful mode to live. But more painful is the traveling back and forth, between poetry and other. Even more painful would be to give up the horizon altogether.