Six ounces late
Clock hands stand at nine miles --
no way to know how many grams pass
before my time. Yet I am optimistic,
bask celsius in shadows of deceased,
believe kilometers, not mere feet,
tick through veins, surge down arteries,
arrive at a heart several metric tons deep.
I am prepared to vacuum ash-filled souls
into endless infinities of somethingness,
spurt happiness over a three-pint universe,
spew forth boxed sets of five-liter lives.
Hopeful, brined giddy, full of fahrenheit,
I weigh in, time existence, measure fate.
As expected, death is six ounces late.