By Richard LeDue
Bach’s cello suites
are precise emotion:
the sort of mathematics
that ruins words
and the kind of feeling
that diminishes numbers,
while a poem like this tries
its damnedest to be musical,
even though it has more in common
with the silence in a library
than any prelude.
Richard LeDue (he/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He writes poems. His last collection, “Existential Drunk,” was released from Alien Buddha Press in May 2026.
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