I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual. - Sylvia Plath

Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel.

That would fix a lot of people.

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

What did my fingers do before they held him?