To dwell in language is to dwell in the moment of epiphany, even to elaborate it and conjugate it by stretching the word out into its grammar. The word is what hits the poet and goes all over him or her. Enshrining this moment is the act of poetry. The life spent making such a shrine is the burden — or the affliction — of the poet. The poem does not heal. Like life, poetry is something from which we cannot be healed.
I copied this off a note K had posted above her desk when she wasn’t around, and then was too afraid to ask her about it.