I am alive—I guess—
The Branches on my Hand
Are full of Morning Glory—
And at my finger’s end—
The Carmine—tingles warm—
And if I hold a Glass
Across my Mouth—it blurs it—
Physician’s—proof of Breath—
I am alive—because
I am not in a Room—
The Parlor—Commonly—it is—
So Visitors may come—
And lean—and view it sidewise—
And add “How cold—it grew”—
And “Was it conscious—when it stepped
In Immortality?”
I am alive—because
I do not own a House—
Entitled to myself—precise—
And fitting no one else—
And marked my Girlhood’s name—
So Visitors may know
Which Door is mine—and not mistake—
And try another key—
How good—to be alive!
How infinite—to be
Alive—two-fold—the birth I had—
And this—besides, in Thee!
Biblioklept 