The Problem of Infinity

When the moon's a silver claw
scything its way through the lump in my throat,
and all the world seems to weigh on my heart,
I realize the problem of infinity,
that all things are possible, but not all things are helpful.

I wish, sometimes, that I could have all this capacity for wonder,
that a red-gold sunset would blaze out at night and fill my heart with birdsong,
that at the glance of a wide-eyed girl my heart would hurt,
that the rain would pain my skin with all the breathlessness of dancing,

without the need for tears flowing fast and silent, without the need for skin
to be torn from skin,
without the words despair speaks like pebbles falling from my lips.

I wish I could leave this broken skin and already, not yet,
be a new creation.
Lord, save me from this body of death.