Death
Going to sleep, I cross my hands on my chest.
They will place my hands like this.
It will look as though I am flying into myself.
—Bill Knott
—found in Asheville Poetry Review (Issue 13, Vol. 10, No. 1; 2003)
[Note: my apologies for the emphasis on the ish in “Daily(ish) Poem” for the last few weeks. Things should be back to normal no later than April 1. No joke.]