How odd to oar through water with so much hope drown and dissolved, to sip the door-dipped tea brewed from resignation’s tannic tang. Forward to what? Whatever sick shades seeped from the Salt Tower in the hour the portcullis splashed shut. Whatever shadow faction Edward called forth to hold fast lives until they were grooves in the stones, stories on the lawns. How did the struck woman shriek and run and leave her voice tattooed on Tower Green, on St. Thomas’ mouth to the Thames? I believe you, pool, when you reflect the bottom of piked necks. I believe you when you so sternly silence the gulls, the gulps in throats, the gray on gray sky.