Gelman has died. Here is a free version of a poem by him that I did a few years ago:
Anyone can get warm
wearing the hide of a wild boar
but to satisfy a real hunger
nothing like a mother's soup.
At the table nobody imposed conditions--
bread, sometimes beer, bright-red
tomatoes, oil, the salt
that makes forgetting easy to eat.
What a spoon for the rice!
How it sang against the bowl!
What am I supposed to do with this
appetite for what was and what wasn't?
At five in the morning
streets of poverty
and language slipping by,
the sun giving grammars of peace
to the plants in the courtyard,
glimmers that left too soon.