Point (February)

Point’s made daily so many times we sometimes miss the point, though once with brass nib the ink was a ball balanced on paper that burst and spread, black-bled a circle, like the dark we speed through over Darebin Creek rail-bridge where below is miniatures of bike lamps and house lights but dark otherwise and above glint miniatures of massed stellar blasts but otherwise dark, and we wonder how one monumental full stop is the universe where we scribble our February favours to one another as unstoppably darkness proceeds, rather stays, until we exhaust ourselves, or arrive at our station.