It’s as far as we can go

Grumpily lost in the wildrness, engrossed in a murmured, mumbling litany of complaint, mind set on the path ‘that must be here somewhere’, that will return us to our home where we’ll find a pot of tea, perhaps a plate of biscuits, even a slice of fruit cake, people who are on our side and a nice log fire. So that the poet we actually stumble across and feel inclined to hate on sight, who appears so mean with the gift of words; words so opaque, so not the point; words so provocative, so against our best interests . . . that we find ourselves in a hungry rage, a demand for the sublime:
WHAT ARE YOU POETS HERE FOR EXCEPT TO POINT US TO THE SUBLIME!!!
No doubt yelled with much effing and blinding.
The return of the poet to an ancient hunched hawthorn conicides with our fall and the awful sound of breaking bone.
Sublime: OED: Latin, sublimis, from sub- ‘up to’ plus a second element perhaps related to limin ‘threshold’, limus ‘oblique’.
What might the threshold look like? These singularly ordinary activities of walking and talking and writing carry us to the threshold, up to the liminal.
Threshold of what, I hear you say.