Fried Egg on the Plate, Without the Plate

None of it makes sense or it all does, doesn’t matter, what matters

is how we recognize Dali’s dangling egg, the yolk-sunny sky, and the odd shelf

as if they remind us of an impossible photo —snapped of our insides, capturing

sentiments for which we have no lyrics only a tune by heart, same

as from a dream or a time before birth.