Luyện nghe bài hát Aren't captives

The pilot of the 747 couldn't stop thinking about the young pilot whose voice he'd heard 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 was choking on freezing salt, until he was scrambling into a harness,
Until he was airborne, lifted for the first time since childhood without the womb of walls him.
In childhold there were hands to lift him, now there are ropes, and machines plow water and spit sky.
Dangling, salvaged. Limp. Live weight. Whale bait. meat. He's waving! Alive.
Now upward to dry 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 after his cessna oil pressure.
This was the man whose voice had kept him flipping back through the to listen.
The voice had kept its balance as the slow began.
The strange limbo of a man who has to think about it.
A man who has twenty until question mark.
Until or question mark? 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 him, they're always there, towing along behind us, like balloons tied to our ankles.
They captives, just clouds. Only clouds.

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