"This is the Last Poem I Will Ever Write"

Because my voice can’t handle it,
It just doesn’t have the vocabulary.

I dream of black oaks mingling with pines
And a forest floor covered in women.
I lust after Whitman’s breadth,
And vision Elise’s great breast
Sagging toward a yearning platonic earth
And leave with dry hands.

I am not a poet, but poems are only this:

The back of a pearl earring