A shard of metal—electric taped to the portal. Shrapnel from a cymbal. Or was it a symbol? Bell bronze. Nickel silver. If you strike something enough, it’s going to break free. Or did I just break everything? Factory grease. Sociology. Sometimes I fantasize about climbing a tree. The tree is named Cereal. And when I ascend, I am camouflaged in green. Waiting for winter to take me under its wing. I become an alloy. A sonnet. She ties her weathered bow around my rust. I know it’s disgusting. But when you swing the gate—my patina sings.