Sat June 1 at 7:30 pm.
Here's the beginning of a poem by Arthur: "I was there, and saw the half-ton rope/of human hair coiled like a python,/glinting." Diaz writes "Angels don't come to the reservation./Bats, maybe, or owls, boxy mottled things./Coyotes, too. They all mean the same thing—/death." And here's Morín: "It shouldn’t have surprised me while reading /Gorky’s remembrance of Tolstoy and/devouring chicken/on a blanket in view of the muddy waters/that I should see a parakeet misnamed/the Quaker parrot."