Luyện nghe bài hát Aren't captives

The pilot of the 747 stop thinking about the young pilot whose voice he'd heard over 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 worming 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 since childhood without the womb of around him.
In childhold there were hands to lift him, now there are ropes, and that plow water 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 about 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 back through the channels to listen.
The voice had kept its balance as the slow began.
The limbo of a man who has time to think about it.
A man who has twenty until question mark.
Until life or question mark? And the pilot of the 747 remembered the 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 they would have together.
She told him, they're always there, towing along behind us, like balloons 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