A Bed of Words Packed Close

The meal left, the shells,
Wrecked and pierced, the whites,
Creams and greys of bone,
Shell, and stone, the arch,
The dome, the air, peak

To peak, the words cried
Out to you, we are
Not rare—we are owned,
We were brought to this—
Shells, bone, stone, arch, dome—

And put to work, and
Set just so, and now
No one can lift us
Out and set us free
To use us more or worse.