Orientation

It is a marvel, how others can look 
upon the world as if without fear.

Tomorrow is a horse waiting at the gate.
Mounted easy, sure of where to go.

Locks spring open: one 
burnished one after another.

If I were the rider, would I
let the horse have its head?

Doubt begins small—sight of a gold
shell left on the side of the tree.

Where does the spirit go after
the body wriggles free of its case?