Incheon Sunrises

Incheon has sunrises like a smokey room
Filled with warm air so wet you are
Too hot when your eyes blink open,
And the gray light seeps in
A suffocating dawn where you
Lie still, breathing shallow,
Sweat pooling in the shadowed
Crevices of your neck, your chest
Rising and falling and sticking to a gray wife-beater
But you'd never hit a girl,
You'd never touch one and neither
Do you think of them much anymore
Your hands ache with the memories
The silent stories of what you have held
And what has been taken away
The clock ticks, you bite the skin
Of your dry lips, salty and
Your eyes trace the journeys of each crack
On the ceiling
Reflecting the travels of a body
Through this, your changing world
The prayer beads on your
Wrist leave round red dots
In your flesh but
The flesh doesn't understand
How your mind rejects that faith
Like a poison in your
Very bones crying at the thought
Of people suffering, so you turn away
But when your being tremors
In stiff rejection, you whisper,
"Who am I?"
This is the way that Incheon mornings unfold,
Filling your room with empty wet smoke.