The poem begins by shrugging off the need for logic: it might make sense or it might not, and that isn't the point. What matters is the jolt of recognition we feel looking at a Dali-like image, with its dangling egg, its sky the color of yolk, and its oddly placed shelf. The title's fried egg, stripped of its plate, hints at the same strange logic of dreams, where things float free of what should hold them.
The speaker suggests these images feel familiar because they seem like a photograph of our insides, a picture of feelings we can't put into words. We have "no lyrics," only a tune we know by heart, the way we might remember a melody from a dream or from "a time before birth." The mood is quiet, wondered, and a little tender. The speaker isn't puzzled by the weirdness; she's comforted by it. Surreal art, the poem implies, gives shape to emotions that ordinary language can't reach.