Distillation

Bad engine whine at the Four Roses.
Exhausted from driving, we stopped
for refreshment, folded the map in favor
of a tour; lost ourselves among the tubes
and tubs of steampunk alchemy. But
like all roads, it ended, the new-penny gleam
in low-lit caverns, spirits soaring over us,
gave way to sun-burnished wood beams
and white walls of noise: the tasting room.
Here, tongues lubed with heavy proof,
a heating, swell, agitated matter expanding
beyond its confines, a coursing rush of
ghosts through narrow lines until cooling.
Vapors condensed along your copper curls.
In your eyes, I saw the worm shed its fruit,
all our impurities decocted and distilled
down to one last, clear, burning drop.
Exhausted from driving, we stopped
for refreshment, folded the map in favor
of a tour; lost ourselves among the tubes
and tubs of steampunk alchemy. But
like all roads, it ended, the new-penny gleam
in low-lit caverns, spirits soaring over us,
gave way to sun-burnished wood beams
and white walls of noise: the tasting room.
Here, tongues lubed with heavy proof,
a heating, swell, agitated matter expanding
beyond its confines, a coursing rush of
ghosts through narrow lines until cooling.
Vapors condensed along your copper curls.
In your eyes, I saw the worm shed its fruit,
all our impurities decocted and distilled
down to one last, clear, burning drop.
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