Luyện nghe bài hát Aren't captives

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

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

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

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