Sestina 2
(for Matt with words of his choosing)

In dreams my heart visits Paris
A young boy clutching a cookie
I am all of six or seven
Lying spread-eagle on the rug
Now in precincts that smell alpine
Transported as if by magic

Never run afoul of magic
Anyplace can be a Paris
Be it swamp, savannah, alpine
Lost in jungle like a cookie
Crumbs that you can't clean from your rug
Deep pile, vacuum setting: seven

Forgiveness seventy-seven
Times we're promised by some magic
Carpet that has become some rug
In our hands just like our Paris
That's been broken like the cookie
In this room that smells so alpine

I am from down south so alpine
Smells like school when I was seven
And some kid threw up his cookie
Then a gray man came by magic
Pulled by strings that start in Paris
To clean vomit off of the rug

It's as if I hopped on that rug
Flew to these once mentioned alpine
Precincts on my way to Paris
And I am that child of seven
The last hope to heal the Magic
Reassembling our Great Cookie

Ev'rybody's got a cookie
Or a piece of one in their rug
Their own little bit of magic
Their own corresponding alpine
Smell, their corresponding seven
Year-old child and their own Paris

Paris is the home and the rug,
The cookie, Faith and the alpine
Smell, Seven signs of God's Magic.