The addition of solitude untrammeled,
one and more and more but always
the inner life astray,

Even Atalanta’s tongue was turned eventually.
Parting the high raceway grasses
she bent down for that last apple,

An implied corkscrew of peel garners the apple.
For days, wholly curved, the fruit has rested here.
The high lights of various mornings have settled

There is a kind
of whiteness to the day,
everything pared down,