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.