Poetry

Fried Egg on the Plate, Without the Plate

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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.