The Forgiving Night

Unshriven

At last my hands are free of all but this;

I court the listless hours

and call it love.

The oath I took outlives the mouth that swore;

I keep its vesper flame

against the wind.

The hills lie mute before the morning breaks;

some lambent bruise of red

unseals the dark.

At noon I sin against the blank again;

I raise unshriven hands

and wake the flesh.

No mortal love has asked of me so much;

it breaks me into form.

O art, my sin.

Marni Fraser

10.09.2026

IV:00 A.M.

Img | 2026