Few people have discovered the joy of reading slow. It’s like walking through the park instead of sprinting. I rediscovered it last year with Alan Moore’s work. His prose is so elaborate and complex that he forces you to slow down and take in one sentence at a time.
Poetry is out of fashion because work is out of fashion. Not labor—we're all exhausted. But the specific work of slowing down, rereading, turning a word over three times to find what's underneath. Prose lets you set the pace. Poetry interrupts. What if that’s the point?