Distillery of the Sun
Richard King Perkins II

I.
 
She’s a complicated person; one of those rare people
who laughs only because she’s had a tough life
and can’t see it at all.
 
What she can see, with eyes audacious and ever-reaching,
is your inner-landscape releasing oxygen
 
that settles upon nightfall and nearby skies
celebrating at the top of your mind and eyebrow.
 
It’s complex, what she does; beyond the deepest blue,
evoking, in her down-to-earth way, an invitation:
 
Come; there is so much more laughter to be revealed
and into your subtle hands will settle the essential droplets
of form and identity.
 
 
II.
 
She asks where everyone has gone to
while plucking at greenery,
picking berries in purple and red,
 
but thinking not of an alcohol made from fruit or honey
but a drink made from grain
 
and that we are all just spirits absently floating
out of and into the distillery of the sun
 
near-perfect impurities
taken by an isolation of breeze
 
that touches our forehead,
soon to be memory; consumed, forgotten,
perhaps never noticed at all.


 
                                                                                    ~ ~ ~
​                                                                                                                  MAY 2026