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 that evening he imagined the successful landing.
The torn plane sank down into the light eating water, a rope came down from above,
The pilot was choking on freezing salt, until he was scrambling into a harness,
Until he was airborne, lifted for the first time since without the womb of walls around him.
In there were hands to lift him, now there are ropes, and machines that plow water and spit sky.
Dangling, salvaged. Limp. Live weight. Whale bait. Living meat. waving! Alive.
Now upward to dry and cheering strangers.

The next day when he got to the airport for his next flight, the of the 747 heard about the young pilot who had been killed,
into the ocean after his cessna lost oil pressure.
This was the man whose had kept him flipping back through the channels to listen.
The voice had kept its as the slow descent began.
The strange limbo of a man who has to think about it.
A man who has minutes until question mark.
Until life or 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 would have together.
She told him, they're always there, towing along behind us, like balloons to our ankles.
aren't captives, just clouds. Only clouds.

He was of you. Of you.
And blue. And captives, tied to our ankles