The speaker is driving alone on a road that climbs toward a peak, and from somewhere near the top, or just short of it, they glimpse a city on the far side. The image is strange and a little unsettling: the city is "building out her teeth," as if skyscrapers or construction cranes were jagged edges growing against the sky. It feels both alive and slightly threatening. The speaker hasn't been there yet, so the city is only a promise, or a warning.
The middle lines are quiet. No other car, just "the country." The road feels empty and open, and the speaker seems caught between that solitude and the pull of the crowded place ahead.
The last stanza turns toward people. Whose hands "are believed / when they meet / face to face"? The poem suggests that trust happens in person, in a handshake, not at a distance. The mood is reflective and watchful, with a faint sense of unease about what lies across the divide.