Crossing lines

I sat, and I said to him, it is like
the lines on her face are songlines but no one is reading the music.

He looked over his newspaper, and he asked me,
but what is the liturgy of this space here anyway and where should it be written?
And the girl on the other side flipped her mirror and she said,
if everything is text then what is the texture of txt?
I think maybe,
she got her wires crossed, it’s the fault of the network -
but anyway,
besides, she said, continuing in her vein
all the sign-posts are pointing post-signs, but
if this is all words here, then did hope get buried under dictionaries? my house is built of encyclopedias, that may be true but the weight of the books can still crush a man, a woman, even a child

Look further down the track, the man replied, still perusing the news columns, there is the level crossing - they wouldn’t necessarily double-cross you but we may be star-crossed, who knows:
They say there is a microwave on the radio in the car on the road under the bridge over the river of sound in my ears beneath my hands in your hands,
and that somewhere in there is a subtle twist that underlines just how it’s all a giant card game and we’re all winners and losers and nothing really matters. Noughts and crosses, strike a line through and take it apart from the sidelines.

But I am just not so sure, she said, after a moment had passed
There is blood under the bridge, a child is drowning there and these words even stretched out will not make a lifeline.