The altar court is open marble under olive. The god who takes the pour is a man — adult, muscled, posted as a precinct, not a cloud. You bring oil or wine. You kneel because the notice says kneel. You leave when the attendant rings the bowl.
Pour
A shallow bronze bowl sits on the step. Municipal oil from the palaestra stall is accepted. The attendant writes your pour on the day sheet without watching how long you stay on your knees. The statue is marble: an adult male, bare as the yard law, stone cock at rest. It is architecture. It is not a man you touch.
The god in precinct
Olympia does not keep Olympus. The island is the land a mortal can walk. If a god is here, he is here as a body in a precinct — heat, oil, a voice from the oracle house next door. Future altars will name him. Today the court is the rule: pour, kneel, change nothing you did not ask to change.