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.

Categories Poetry

Pamela Hobart Carter loves Seattle as much for its water and mountains as for its bustle and creativity. She explores the Emerald City daily while walking her dog. Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side.

Creative Commons License
Except where otherwise noted, the content on this site is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.