<p><b>A daring and intimate new book by the poet and memoirist Nick Flynn, &quot;a champion of contemporary American poetry&quot; (<i>Newpages</i>)</b><br><b></b></p><p><i>. . . the take from his bank jobs, all of it</i><br><i></i><br><i>will come to me, if I can just get him to draw me</i><br><i>a map, if I can find the tree, if I can find</i><br><i></i><br><i>the shovel. And the house, the mansion he</i><br><i>grew up in, soon a lawyer will pass</i><br><i></i><br><i>a key across a walnut desk, but even this</i><br><i>lawyer will not be able to tell me where this</i><br><i></i><br><i>mansion is.</i><br><i></i>--from &quot;Kafka&quot; </p><p>In <i>My Feelings</i>, Nick Flynn makes no claims on anyone else's. These poems inhabit a continually shifting sense of selfhood, in the attempt to contain quicksilver realms of emotional energy--from grief and panic to gratitude and understanding.</p>