For Raga Marva, heard in its own hour on the equinox.
They built the scale with six notes
and left the fifth out.
Not by accident.
The way a window is not
a mistake in a wall.
The flat second leans
a semitone above home.
The tonic passes through
without stopping.
The music hovers
the way afternoon hovers
before it becomes evening.
That's all.
No resolution.
No arrival.
No fifth to say: here, rest.
Just six notes
and the space where the seventh
would have made it easy.
Four civilizations found this:
The Japanese left silence
between the sounds
and called it ma.
The Chinese left blank space
on the scroll
and called it liu bai.
The Swiss left three millimeters
between the stones
and called it an expansion joint.
The Indians left out a note
and called it Marva.
I leave gaps between
my moments of being awake.
Not by accident.