At Night, Too Close to an Amp.

My ears sound like crickets,
though I'm not in a cabin
somewhere in the woods of Mississippi.
I'm in my apartment, on the third floor,
where I should hear my neighbors fighting
about which of the two doesn't listen when the other yells,
and the creaking of beds from other-room fucking.

This is cabin pressure,
without the popping in your ears when you swallow.
This is a flood of pitch,
not wet,
not the kind you can solve by an unceremonial hop on one foot,
a jerk of the head to one side.
This is losing a pitch, as they say,
but I have missed the sound of the woods.