One Pulsing Muscle

You're throwing apple cores on my pile,
Decadent feasts my eyes call
"Still half the apple." It takes a while
For a lone crawling worm to nibble through,
Call it savoring. Call it survival. There's
A hamhawk, too,
By the time I finish. An oven-sweet
Beetskin. It's dirtpile divinity, I think,
To know I'll never finish loving
What you've given me.
I want to till your garden and leave
Fixed earth behind me. I want to feed
The tomatoes that will feed you
In the summer. Rings of muscle near
Frozen by cold, now, I feel
Out of step. Touching my tasting-skin
To the salt and sugar sacraments
Out of sight and out of time. I hope
You still know, in the warm woolen walls,
That you have baptized me with decadence,
That my stomach clutches it to keep me warm.