Medbh McGuckian’s Pre-Raphaelite-rich poetry is brocaded; fabric, thread, and stitch receive equal attention. She opens ‘Painting a Verb Half Golden’, “The horizon is in danger/ just off the real land grown on.” We might believe horizon is subject, only it might be verb. Told “thoughts rub against it” we surmise horizon may be her forehead; she leaves us thinking such thoughts. When Medbh halfway addresses someone saying she let them “scorch my tongue to living silver / with your young gold” eroticism makes linguistics physical. Love is verb, time undefined, it could be the Middle Ages, it could be February.