30 degrees in the morning’s
cuckoo clock
and we were ten years
younger, reliving
a day when a diary entry
had us in a furore, each
of us, bisecting,
intersecting, making
the author flush
in anger, enraged
that the nose that
turned her on
and do a 180 degree spin
right into one horizontal line
was being nosed upon
by her shrill pals,
pecked and tweaked,
her ardor trampled on
in so wanton a manner,
until she could
bear it no more
and tore the diary out,
nose and all, safe
in her hands, torn but
what of it, when it was
very clearly etched
where it mattered.
didn’t she know
that at that age
ardor is distributed into
infinitesimal differentials,
Gaussy and fuzzy,
passion headier
when extrapolated,
lovelier if tangential,
no intersections to
spoil the line traversed…
on regression,
don’t the dots
look better connected,
strewn as they were
by us, well-
angled,
expertly decreed
to the right degree?
p.s: special dedication to Neba. Sou, Hima, Ambru, Varsh, she owes us and big time too 
@andy, thatdudeeddie and solingenpoet:
happy to see the likes 
@photo botos:
glad to see you like this 