It happens. I'm working on a poem. Like a lot of them lately, this one involves illness & recovery, death & rebirth. There's a bit about someone in a hospital - I mention "Room 132". (I'm thinking of Beethoven's late quartet, opus #132, the hymn of thanksgiving for his recovery from illness - among other things.) I finish the poem, & I'm so happy with it I send it off to a magazine. I pick up Berryman's Dream Songs, which I've been reading lately - flip by chance to Part III, which comes immediately after the "opus posthumous" section, & in which "Henry" comes back from the dead. There's a title on the 1st poem : "Room 231".