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In the Latest Issue of Christianity & Literature:

Skylight

Joseph A. Chelius

For hours under a
  freezing hole
we huddled in
  thin jackets,
shuffled our
  numbed feet
to Yes and
  early Genesis tunes
on the paint-spattered
  CD player
my brother had
  set down
on a brown milk crate.
In the clutter of tools
  and hoagie wrappers,
bottles of Yuengling
Lite chilling
in the spare
refrigerator by the
pool table,
we traded quips,
talked point spreads--
spoke the language
that passes
for affection among
unshaven men
at sport or on the job
on Saturday
afternoons--
but then came the
lofty play of hands
as we helped to ease
the big skylight
in place.
How solemn we grew,
how hushed in our
concentration:
the four of us with
our palms extended
in silent communion,
reaching up
to take it in--a chore
transformed
into sacred work;
the forbearance of
the fingers--
gentle wayfarers,
little plodders
in the dark,
resting, resuming,
grappling above
our heads,
probing for signs with
their common touch.

Summer 2008