The Boy and the Beach Drowned Chariot

My ancient wooden wheels
are stuck in the sand, sunk
in the thick, wet would-be rocks.

Here I am,
immovable in you
and the vast desert shore.
No oasis, this, so I'll pitch
my camp here among
the Bohems and professional gypsies.

The routines stay the same
no matter where the tents.

Morning toothpaste smells
like medicine, but it culls
the night taste of
-last cigarettes
-stale booze
-and you.

Sand shifts and dances
like your eyes
your mood
your attention
and there's nowhere for me to go
without catching the shifting
drifting scent of
-sea salt air
-fish deep in water
-and your whiskey coffee lips.

I imagine that breath as a lure
hooking and catching
hearts and souls
like so many sea creatures
in the best homespun nets.

Does the squid know to escape,
when he is self aware
enough to sense that he's been caught?