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Poem	I'm afraid of needles. I'm tired of rubber sheets and tubes. I'm tired of faces that I don't know and now I think that death is starting. Death starts like a dream, full of objects and my sister's laughter. We are young and we are walking and picking wild blueberries. all the way to Damariscotta. Oh Susan, she cried. you've stained your new waist. Sweet taste -- my mouth so full and the sweet blue running out all the way to Damariscotta. What are you doing? Leave me alone! Can't you see I'm dreaming? In a dream you are never eighty.
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