Feelings seem like made-up things,
though I know they’re not.
I don’t understand why they lead me
around, why I can’t explain to the cop
how the pot got in my car,
how my relationship
with god resembled that
of a prisoner and firing squad
and how I felt after I was shot.
– from Brenda Shaughnessy, “All Possible Pain” in this month’s Paris Review
(Source: poetryeater.com)
