Wright himself is a contentious presence [in Bloodlines]…. He is on the move. His poems fairly explode from the page in hurly-burly refrain, elliptical syntax, and giddy shifts that recall Hopkins:

          Sucked in and sucked out, tidewash
          Hustles its razzamatazz across the cut lips
          of coral, the thousands of tiny punctures
          Spewing and disappearing….
                                             (p. 117)

Wright is a sped-up silent flick, these poems are ways out of ourselves, ways to accomplish "the getaway by the light of yourself," ways to dream the page, then disappear. Wright invites comparison with the cinematic: some poems have a grainy, pointillist texture, particularly the "memory sequences"—flickering home movies with a hand-held camera. There is something "inhuman, something you can't know" in beauty and the poet does not want to dwell too long anywhere, or move too close to the mystery—home is "what you keep making." Wright's a perennial tenant—moves in and out of every temporary shelter he creates.

These poems are forward-looking, light-seeking, if not exactly optimistic. But the labor is away from dark and the poet does know the darkness…. (p. 118)

Close [to despair], but not close enough to succumb, he moves through the dilemma of the past, the debris of memory, sidestepping the ruins. (p. 119)

Begin again is his lesson—and regret becomes narrative, reminiscence, Wright flexing his muscles before tightening the spring and moving on again. He is already into the story, deeper into language itself, its changing promise and intelligence. He is sequestered in a fullblown and recognizable style. (pp. 119-20)

Wright's [genius] is to stand in the light till his words catch fire, acquire patina, then reflect the sun on their own. (p. 120)