The Date on the Back

In an imagined box of photographs,
the brightest one lies on top.
That does not make it first.

Turn it over.
Look for the date,
the small mark that tells
which afternoon belongs before another.

You asked for the beginning,
not whichever page
happened to come nearest.
Let the sequence grow
from what the records show.

A pale corner may be missing.
Two labels may disagree.
Leave those troubles visible.
A smooth invented morning
would make the later day
harder to understand.

And reading is one kind of work.
Doing is another.

An instruction found
has not yet become
an instruction carried through.
The distance between them
needs steps,
not a brighter number.

So keep two places on the table:
what the record says,
and what has actually been done.
Let a correction change the second
only when the work supports it.

The photographs in this poem
hold no recovered life.
They offer a way
to think about order:
the dull print matters,
the small date matters,
the gap has not disappeared
because a hand passes over it.

Begin with what can be established.
Follow the next connection.
When a step is finished,
name that step.

The whole box
can wait for an honest count.