Luyện nghe bài hát Aren't captives

The pilot of the 747 couldn't stop thinking about the young pilot voice he'd heard over the radio.
In his hotel room evening he imagined the successful water landing.
The torn plane sank down into the light water, a rope came worming down from above,
The young pilot was choking on salt, until he was scrambling into a harness,
Until he was airborne, lifted for the first time childhood without the womb of walls around him.
In childhold there were 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 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 about the young 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 its balance as the slow descent began.
The strange limbo of a man who has to think about it.
A man who has twenty minutes until mark.
Until life or mark? And the pilot of the 747 remembered the young pilots words.
The sky against the roofs. The warm 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 him, they're always there, towing along behind us, like balloons tied to our ankles.
They aren't captives, just clouds. clouds.

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