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 that evening he imagined the successful water landing.
The torn plane 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 time since childhood without the womb of walls around him.
In childhold there were hands to lift him, now there are ropes, and that plow water and spit sky.
Dangling, salvaged. Limp. weight. Whale bait. Living meat. He's waving! Alive.
Now upward to dry deck and 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,
Crashing the ocean after his cessna lost oil pressure.
This was the man voice had kept him flipping back through the channels 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 minutes question mark.
Until life or question 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 told him, they're always there, towing along behind us, balloons tied to our ankles.
They captives, just clouds. Only clouds.

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