I don’t have a sestina here.
My sestina was going to be
my Christmas tree. I mapped out

a thorough diagram where the ornaments
would hang with a pattern of repeating balls.
My plan was met with resistance, a lot

of resistance from my wife and son,
with wild claims that it all sounded a little bit anal.
Is that what I want, an anal Christmas tree?

Well, no, put that way, who would, but . . .
And further, it didn’t sound like fun to them, it sounded like work.
But it’s a sestina tree, sestinas are work, the fun and pleasure come later.

Who knows why magic
has gone out of the world,
let alone poetry. I don’t, I know.

I didn’t I know
believe in joy or order in the world,
or, for that matter, magic,

watching my wife and son place ornaments in the tree
anywhere they damn well pleased.