Sonnet Inspired by an MRI Scanner

In dolorous months we await the word
To let the nagging riddle of our pain,
That holds the moth of life in chain,
To this vertiginous intelligence be fed.

The Behemoth, droning in an airless room,
Is coiled about a sleeve of space,
To which upon a pallet I am placed,
Abandoned in this sepulchre or womb.

From a speaker, remote and brief assurance
Warns of each new battered interrogation
At which the marshalled atoms dance,
While deep inside the terror sharpens.

Have pity on us with your magnetic eyes,
In whose vision hope is born, and dies.