I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
—I saw it with one eye close to the crumb—
and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.
We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.
This is an elegantly worked sestina, epitomized by its envoi, in which the end-words fall into natural pairs. Bishop worried, though, that it was a bit too smooth: 
 It seems to me that there are two ways possible for a sestina– one is to sue unusual words as terminations, in which case they have to be used differently as often as possible… That would make a highly seasoned kind of poem. And the other way is to use as colorless words as possible– like Sydney [sic], so that it becomes less of a trick and more of a natural theme and variations. I guess I have tried to do both at once. 
 (from  Becoming a Poet: Elizabeth Bishop with Marianne Moore and Robert Lowell , by David Kalstone.) 

A Miracle For Breakfast