Disease even love cannot forgive. Or share.
A man with diarrhea has no sex.

Isolate yourself, then, in the plain room.
Now is the time of catharsis, of spirit retreat
amid the simple white sheets, in the small primal world of bed,
for lucent broths, shining fruit juices, pale Oriental sherbets,
delivered to the door three times daily, with a discreet knock,
time for reading of books which it always intended to read,
for writing letters to forgotten friends,
drawing of strength to face battle again.
The world outside has vanished; time is meted out
in flushings of the toilet, turning on and off the lights.

The third day, rising again,
forces and optimism renewed by the withdrawal,
by the plain diet, meditation, lack of excess,
step forth into the coloured, moving world, finding it as new and beautiful
as the morning after a hangover.
Step forth, return to ennobling struggle, remembering only
the stinks and the dark soft substances emanated from your body,
which are there always, indwelling, not seeking exit, and are
the smells and substances of decay.