You’re out of popcorn again.

The mesh door swings on its hinges in the September wind, like a reminder. 

Living room stacked with half eaten tv dinners.

Shoe boxes for a shoe box body, cardboard, limp, unstrung marionette.

He’s sitting in the ethereal blue glow at the temple of midnight infomercials. 

Eyes sunken pits.

He is still.

Aluminium foil wreathing his throne of debris echoes like the symphonies of his lost home.

He reaches for the screen- The Creation of Adam- 

He strokes the announcer’s face.

Like staccato electricity radio waves enough to be his brother, his lost celestial nature.

The temple of the American God has always been here.

Your parlor has been looking for someone to fall into its shrine, 

prayers, answered, 

Tumbled from the thunder like a chick oozes from an egg, into the nest of your dilapidated sofa.

Your mother’s ashes are still above the fireplace. 

The antique clock lies smashed against the floor.

Shard dust carpet

Glass dust bed, refracting, bifrost in the sun.

Loki doesn’t speak to you.

You know who he is. You've read books. 

You leave offerings at the mouth of his sacred place.

Even in his fall, he assumes his grace, his command, with dignity does he accept the gift of microwaved meals. 

Immortality corroded in a world on a countdown. It senses.

Power shrinks, small and deep, like a swallowed penny. 

Flesh once a commodity, a catastrophe, a concentration to uphold.

Limbs useless. 

Like stone, rests the Trickster. 

Neck, creaks, bones, bending. Skelton eyes watching you, hair hung like damp shower curtains.

“I’m here for the ashes,” you say. He does not answer.

You’ll come back another day.