The book that taught to dust shalt thou return
Collected dust, but I was quick to learn.
I thought that if I hastened my descent
I might avert some loss. So down I went

Among the catacombs of libraries,
Where Santayana questioned Socrates
In the hushed tone the newly dead assume
When they address their elders-in-the-tomb.

There I mixed in. Stiff and unathletic,
I fashioned a persona, The Ascetic,
That gained acceptance. All my gang were ghosts.
We raised an empty glass to make our toast.

Appearance didn't matter where we met.
Observing the unspoken etiquette
Of disembodied voices, I kept still
And in the feast of silence had my fill.

It needed salt. But there was dust for that,
And at the empty table where we sat
Plenty enough, for we were slight of build.
There were no table crumbs, and nothing spilled.

We would indulge a taste for subtleties,
And contemplate in long soliloquies
The ease of being none too full or fond
Of anything or anyone. We'd bond,

These absences and I. Because I sensed
That what I felt they too experienced,
The opposite of a collector's greed,
Something we shared of needing not to need.