Come on, let’s drink from a glass of stars

Let's get drunk on cheap pink wine,
I'm sick of genteel sadness. I want to
wade thigh-high into waves and

shake a fist: “Damn you up there
in your glittering milieu--
what do you know?

"Have you birthed a stillborn child?
Lost a son in Normandy?
Searched for a missing mom?"

Someone, please twirl me
on dull beige sand,
I want people to point and stare.

Sneering comets, nebulae--
come down here,
go toe to toe with me.