Without the Red Glove

Naturally you would come on the Blue Moon
The last of this decade as you and I reach
Our own decade of incomplete decadence
Tonight after spring fever on the porch
That merciless Moon poured her light out
On the helpless dogwoods white delicacies
Delicate as that airy kiss of our two beards

Are we now Glaucon and Adeimantus living
In the realm of Ideals talking of music and art
Your feminine hands nails painted black belie
A tension that has turned a coral snake
Into a gender-fluid salamander held tender
In Schiele's grasp without the red glove
Thirsting for our blue pool of aberrant love