One book that has brought me particular pleasure is written by Idaho's Robert Wrigley. His title, ''Lives of the Animals," can't tell all the richness of life and death, sensation and insight, that the poems in it evoke. Nearly all of them offer glimpses from a window or through the trees into woods where deer, swallows, bear, spiders, dogs, and even beloved humans carry out their lives. Wrigley's senses lie wide open, and so do his feelings. His ways of hearing and speaking reach into affection, ''the way 'rose' suddenly means the bare skin of a girl/ten billion blossoms ago, who'd undressed and let him/look and only look and look at her looking back." Wrigley hears what he says, listens not only to what he hears in the woods but what he hears in the house, to the sound of the words he is setting down as well as to the ideas and sensations he wants them to carry: ''And now the snow I could smell/has married the wind, my face/feels sandblasted. Even when I stop/to listen, I hear nothing of my passage,/no heart thump or lung rasp . . ." Listen to the play of the senses in those lines. The human presence in them owes much to Wrigley's own remembered experience, but even more to his consciousness of language and his discernment in marshaling it. His poetry faces up to the primal challenge of the original human setting: a wild world that brings all the poet's memory, instincts, imagination, and sensuous resources into play in the language he uses.