Preacher man's sun sets just like mine
when we both glide down the Mississippi
he's a black obelisk, some monolithic terror
clutching a thin prayer book between
fingers wet with blood

Preacher man's grass is green like mine
when we both run the yard and daydream
he's a mad liturgist, some monotheist mirror
consumed in flames like phoenixes
the rebirth of first sin

Preacher man's bed is just like mine
when we both part sheets to rest our souls
he's a white anarchist, his glass of water clearer
filtered from tap so that he may
escape the angel of death

Preacher man's grave is just like mine
when we both are caught by memory
he's a dead archivist, the price of mythic error
buried in his very best so he
can be forgotten