470 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 Gla** 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