David Lynch

Fifteen minutes ago, before
you were born (before
you were born) there was

an immenseness, the light

trapped in its own density, that gave a child to the world
(before you were born) and had nothing
to say, only screaming (before you were born)
and before you were born
there were only moments,

still flags on windy days,
which

before you were born ended the lives
of heroes, never snakes or apples or gods,

and you remembered, you
(before you were born)

remembered that before you were born you
were different. I never had fifteen minutes of hope

before the first boys
born virgin
in a ravished forewinter;

before you were born there
were the full haunches that moved,

rippling silk in the sun,
dripping you

spiraling downward into silence
that held you its mouth until you fell,
silent screams,

onto bare-naked tile.