November evening exile ice Bristol park edge wooden form three pairs of clothes newsprint warmth only Mirror cloth against cold hunger eats bones

No rent

Purple finger ends veins icy twitch bad blood his mother said

No job.

Winters’ park form edge is razor thought takes empties pockets, sparkling fluff elastic band broken biro no cold coin disgrace.

This is not a poem about park life on a winter form
These are not words about not being able
This is not about lack of power