How can you pretend the Earth is breathing?

I can see you thinking there;
Working hard the gray behind your eyes:
'What is the reason for this shifting ground?'
Of the grass and dirt being pulsed by worms and bugs
beneath your leather boots
scuffed from kicking
worn from being ripped from your feet
for a night
of being thrown on hard wood and forgotten.
Your face wet and streaked in glittered plum.
'What if' for second chances of
waking up to ringing church bells
when now everything has been
sleeping on eggshells.

Looking down, slowly, you see writhing
beneath your heels. Choked mealworms
whose mouths are wrought with breath and dust
behind your back snaps grass
stalk from the pressure of your weight.
Growing bent in almost perfect unison.
A rising working unit.

And the world wonders: “Why,
as vermin are to verdict;
your eyes half shut and you still smiling,
your throat coarse from smoking
your tongue half-fold and paper thin,
you progress without any reason at all?.”

Save, of course, the thoughts in the back of your head.
“Why is 'habit' the word that no one will ever say.”