poem fragment under construction

the last day of summer passed without mention,
and i woke up in autumn,
wondering where it had gone:

was it

squeezed
between dreams
stretching inward
towards infinity?

or

was it

trampled
beneath the weight
of an endless
night?

or

was it

merely forgotten,

lost to

the celluloid

memory -

Bogart's Parisian Golgotha.