This is not concrete poetry per se, but cardboard.
The germinal curiosities that started The Neighboring Lot are 1) the empty lot next to my old apartment building, and 2) the direct connection that I see between Andrew Marvell's "The Garden" and John Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn." An undeveloped lot is an anomaly in present day Los Angeles, needless to say in downtown. Apparently an elder Cambodian lady owns the land, a plot family-owned for generations. She moved out to the suburbs decades ago, and is happy to just have it there. All my time at 731 Bernard, it functioned as a neighborhood dogrun, trash heap, and forage sight. What for an intense instance seemed prelapsarian quickly turned to ruin.
This is poetry obviously formalist, materialist, and durational. The poem comprises six stanzas that were placed out in the lot after composition for decomposition at the mercy of nature and man. Here are images of the text before placement.