Emma Törzs

A green dress and a torn face and a fence around the party, a building-up.
A spot on your shirt, a spotted shirt to blend with the plants. Hiding is less avid.
Three times nine knees, three times an invite slotted sideways up the spout.
Pressure, pressure is the metal under which the body run and laundry until coffee or even so far into.
A special bowl, one that holds the most and dearest and clock by whisker smacks the fastest.
Very spots, the circled ribbon, all stain, both unwrapped feet, the almost, the crackle, while the nodding visions it is arm-rest, all arrested arms.
Spit the basin and hold the basin and the oldest songs, the uglier beneath.