Luyện nghe bài hát Aren't captives

The pilot of the 747 couldn't stop about the young pilot whose voice he'd heard over the radio.
In his hotel room evening he imagined the successful water landing.
The torn sank down into the light eating water, a rope came worming down from above,
The young pilot was choking on freezing salt, until he was into a harness,
Until he was airborne, lifted for the time since childhood without the womb of walls around him.
In childhold there were hands to lift him, now there are ropes, and machines that plow and spit sky.
Dangling, salvaged. Limp. Live weight. Whale bait. meat. He's waving! Alive.
Now to dry deck and cheering strangers.

The next day when he got to the airport for his next flight, the pilot of the 747 heard the young pilot who had been killed,
Crashing into the ocean his cessna lost oil pressure.
This was the man whose voice had kept him flipping back the channels to listen.
The voice had kept its balance as the slow began.
The strange limbo of a man who has time to think it.
A man who has twenty minutes until mark.
Until life or question mark? And the of the 747 remembered the young pilots words.
The sky against the roofs. The rain in summer. His girl. Her favorite dress. Blue.
Air conditioned. She is in the light. She is soft and white.

The children would have someday together.
She told him, they're always there, along behind us, like balloons tied to our ankles.
aren't captives, just clouds. Only clouds.

He was of you. Of you.
And blue. And aren't captives, tied to our