With withering pretext of context
I set my words to paper
Roll them tightly
Place them in a bottle
And toss them in the ocean
To join the garbage
Floating in the Pacific garbage patch,
But something weird must have happened
And my words were returned on the tide
Because one day out in the garden
Playing with his toys in the dirt
My son was repeating slogans
Of words he couldn’t have heard.
I woke up remembering this poem I had written in my dreams last night. I tried to write it down before I forgot it. I remembered the first few lines word for word. The lines after that, I had to recreate from a general impression because I had begun to forget. And by the time I got to the final lines the only thing I could remember is that my son was in the poem in some way. So I had to make those lines up without any help from my dreams.