Most of Forth of July was written in a kind of productive trance. Sometimes I talk about it in the poem (this part from early in Stubborn Grew)...
Home again from London, I lay near Lucky;
a man on the sofa, nearly lucky, I lay.
A man of clay, eyes open, looking out at the sky.
As though the blurred porch window held the key.
Blue arch of sky, a flurry of pussy willows.
Out of the man of clay the heart goes out
through the eyes – a circular route,
elliptical, eccentric. Whatever nobody knows
sounds, unspeakable. Toward the willows;
toward the bent branches shading a long river,
somewhere (ingrained in the interior).
A dream of the clay man, motionless, comatose.
An image in the glass, or ghostly hum
draws breath from lakes of immobile eyes.
A statue, stirring Provençal sighs
from old books (Francesca's boredom), or
immobile blue-brown blur captured in a porch
windowpane. A supine, motionless man of clay.
And something quivers in his chest – today,
eternity – a key, scrambling in the latch
or Bluejay, whistling, rehearsing in the tree...
icon filling the frame for a troubled moment
like lost summer wind, crossing cement
with deep soil... infant memoir of infinity.
Closed eyes and speechlessness.
A clipper, sailing over seas of grain.
Bluejay's fiery Chippewater – a milk train
way. Eyes closed, and speechless.