I’d repeat my sons exactly
as they are, even the one

with the now blue hair still asleep
at the foot of my bed. I’d repeat

the night I met my wife and even
the middle years of purgatorial sorrow.

Three times, at least, I’d repeat last
night’s sunset, of which I could see

a framed square of downy furrows
deepening from rose to bruise

while I sat in the filling tub, book
in hand, already part way out

of this world. Though it would not
bring me any joy at all, I would

repeat three times the day I did not
pull the trigger, or the day I almost

pushed the sharpest knife
we owned between my ribs.

Three times, at least, I would
enter the water, walking toward

the sun, the water needle cold,
all of it, in its own way, surging

toward an epic repetition—
I may be on the other side

of some things, but I have not
yet seen the longest night.