Tanning Booths in the Dead of Winter

I’ve been living in a city
where the sky is stained orange
by our own excess light
and the wind
cold and biting
dances with my hair
and people smile
and hold doors open.

A city where
they install squares of sky
into window frames
and the water
looks like frozen desert
painted white.

Where little boys
stare in train car windows,
his reflection unnoticed
as he delights
in the darkness
whizzing past him.

Where businessmen shake hands
over cups of coffee
and homelessmen shake hands
over conversation about
the world being black and white.

Where my skin flakes off
and collects in the carpet
to remind me that
yes
I am infinitely changed,
and I sit in tanning booths
to feel a little bit like Icarus.